


"no" and other four letter words

by a_good_soldier



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Consent, Conversations, Coping, Family, Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: In which Dick Grayson learns about consent, with some help from his family.





	"no" and other four letter words

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote some substantial beginning and end notes for this fic, but i was starting to get into “i’m writing an essay to justify every single writing choice i made” territory, so i’ll leave it at this: this fic deals closely with themes of (mostly canon) sexual assault and rape (including a non-canon instance of childhood sexual abuse) and coping with the long-term aftermath of that, but there are no graphic rape scenes. some parts are slightly based on mine and what i have observed of my friends’ experiences, but this is in no way an all-encompassing or universal reflection of all experiences of sexual harassment / assault / rape. if you would like more detailed warnings or other information, please feel free to message me on tumblr @agoodsoldier. i am open to commentary, questions, and criticism, but please be gentle, friends :) also, i'm very sorry to all the canon purists, because this is... i'm not even sure what universe it's in, let alone what timeline. wild.
> 
> writing this was a truly ridiculous process that lasted way too long, and it’s only ending now because if i looked at this fic any longer i’d scrap the whole thing out of sheer frustration (i remember the good old days when i thought this would be under 10k... lmao). i definitely couldn’t have done it without rachel, without whose clear and concrete advice there would be no fight scenes, and without whose general support there would probably be no fic at all! thank you, so so so so much <3

It comes to him in pieces.

 

* * *

 

It starts with Jason, actually. Or, well, it started with Talia, or Catalina, or-

 

But for all intents and purposes, it starts with Jason.

 

They’re flying across the top of Gotham, for bat-given definitions of flight, when Dick sees a young man being felt up by a young woman. They’re both beautiful, which makes sense, since this is a beautiful club in what could be considered a more beautiful part of town, and no money has exchanged hands as far as he can tell.

 

He’s slurring, a drink still in his hands which she’s – smiling, giggly – prodding him to drink. It’s not a situation Dick has ever been in, so he can’t say he’s familiar with it, can’t say he’d know if it was wrong or not. He shakes off the vague sense of unease – undoubtedly a lack of familiarity with this situation, with being a college kid, with going to a club for non-mission related reasons – and aims his grapple for the next gargoyle, when Jason stops him.

 

“Are you fucking stupid?” he says, which, in hindsight, is something Dick can’t really blame him for. “Does that look consensual to you?”

 

Dick is taken aback, both by the word “consensual” tumbling out of Jason’s mouth (and where did that come from, the surprise? Did Dick assume that only university-educated equity majors knew how to talk about date rape? Did Dick assume that only women– well) and by the implication that something non-consensual was happening. Dick looks at the scene and, as “fucking stupid” as Jason might have called him, he has some smarts. He changes the genders in his mind, imagines a young man pushing a young girl to down a shot as he crowds her up against the brick, and realizes what his brain has been subtly shifting him away from seeing.

 

“Oh.” Dick shakes off the confusion, the sensation of something tugging at his body that’s making him uncomfortable, and dives into the alley. It’s laughably easy to separate the two and usher the girl out of the alley – Jason doesn’t do it in front of the boy, but Dick can hear him through the comms, saying things like _if someone says no, fucking listen to them_ and _you fucking disgust me_ and _he was_ afraid _, did you not see that? did you not notice that he was fucking_ shaking _?_ which is something Dick had missed as well, frankly.

 

Dick turns to the boy – young man, he should say, or just person, probably – and is suddenly struck with awkwardness.

 

This has literally never happened before. Dick has never been at a loss for words – he’s rescued crying children, old grannies clutching to their canes in fear, entire transit buses filled with people who’ve been part of yet another Arkham escapee “incident,” and more than a few young women being cornered in alleyways just like this one – and he’s genuinely shocked and appalled at his own discomfort.

 

“Shit, sorry,” he says after almost a minute of silence passes. “Are you okay? Do you need any help getting home?”

 

“Thanks,” the boy says, gathering his things, the dropped glass that hasn’t shattered. Dick notices the tremor in his hands this time around. “You really didn’t need to– I could have said no. It’s fine. Sorry, thanks. I can get home on my own.”

 

Dick asks him if he’s sure, but doesn’t press it when the boy –  _young man_ – pushes past him back into the club, presumably to grab his jacket, if it hasn’t been stolen. Dick stands there, the words _I could have said no_ filtering in and out of his ears, an echo bumping against the brick and the concrete until Dick’s dizzy with it.

 

“Hey, what’s wrong, birdbrain?” Jason asks. They still have another three hours before morning dawns and they can go home to their beds (or wherever Jason sleeps when Dick can’t convince him to crash at his apartment), but Dick almost wants to call it a night. He’s disoriented and frustrated.

 

“Nothing,” he says when he realizes he’s almost about to let the silence drag on for too long. “He just– nothing.”

 

Jason looks at him – Dick can tell, even with the mask – but seems to find nothing worthy of concern. He does, however, add: “If you think there wasn’t a problem, fuck you. Just because he’s a guy–”

 

“Hey, no!” Dick says. “That’s not it at all. I know guys can get–” _raped,_ his brain whispers, _just say it, it’s just a word_ “–assaulted. That’s not the issue.”

 

“Right, okay.” It’s clear that Jason believes him in some measure; the fact that he doesn’t continue on his spiel about the validity of male rape victims is evidence enough. Not that Dick doesn’t agree with him. It’s just– he doesn’t need to hear it over and over again, is all.

 

_I could have said no_ , his mind repeats. Dick anticipates a sleepless night.

 

* * *

 

His dreams, generally, are pleasant enough. He’s not like Bruce, who sleeps in fits and starts, bad dreams plaguing his nights right up until the morning, when his body finally gives in and leaves him comatose until afternoon hits. He’s not like Tim either, who claims that he can’t remember his dreams and sleeps so regularly you could set a watch by it.

 

He has a lot of trauma in his past – after all, his early childhood memories are sharply delineated from his present by the death, sudden and totally unexpected, of his parents, falling away from him as he reached out to no avail – but it rarely recurs in his sleep. He’ll remember it at other inconvenient times (he remembers his first weeks and months at the manor, when he’d had to suddenly stop what he was doing to press a hand to his chest as he struggled to breathe, so purely _sad_ that he couldn’t even imagine smiling, couldn’t imagine anything other than this unbearable ache), and dwell on it so it takes him hours to actually _fall_ asleep, but his dreams themselves have usually been reflections of safe, happy memories, occasionally distorted by dream logic.

 

One of the few nightmares that he _can_ remember happened when he was twelve, almost two years after Bruce had taken him in. He was in his room – he liked sleeping in the same bed as Bruce every so often, but he was growing older, and Bruce said it would be inappropriate – when suddenly (or, not so suddenly, just instantly, in the way of dreams) he was in the circus tent, looking up at himself and his parents. He was Bruce, watching Dick’s parents die. And he stood up, and up and up and up, and his shoulders reached the platform Dick was standing on; and he said _don’t let them jump_ , but Dick didn’t trust him, not yet, because he’d never met him before.

 

So Dick encouraged his parents to do it, get on the trapeze, and they passed right through Bruce as Dick watched, his parents falling between the hands that were now as solid as wisps of air, and he couldn’t catch them, he _couldn’t_. And now he was too giant to walk around safely, so everywhere he stepped, people were crushed underfoot, and little Dick on the platform was saying _Hey! Watch where you’re goin’, Mister!_ as Bruce walked away, all the way to the manor. He was inside the kitchen, somehow having skipped the driveway and the front door, where Alfred just looked at him, and made him shrink back to normal size and eat a scone, except it wasn’t delicious at all; it just tasted like salt.

 

Dick remembers waking up, not gasping or sitting up, just opening his eyes and releasing the unease that had built up to a breaking point that woke him. There had been tears on his pillow, but he’d flipped it over and lain back down, and wiped his face off on his shirt.

 

At the time, he’d spent a good fifteen minutes contemplating the dilemma of whether or not to seek out Bruce. He remembers the intense deliberation between the pros (hugs, Bruce saying something nice, possibly hot chocolate) and cons (being seen as weak, leaving the relative safety of his bed, accidentally waking Alfred up). He remembers that he chose to go to Bruce in the end, and he remembers, with vivid clarity, the fact that Bruce’s bed was empty.

 

He vaguely recalls going to wake up Alfred afterwards, the quiet explanation of how Bruce sometimes had late-night business deals, his own cynical cusp-of-puberty assumption that Bruce was off having sex and couldn’t be bothered to leave a note. The details of how he ended up back in his own bed are lost to him; whether it was Alfred who walked him there, whether he went on his own, or whether Bruce came home early (from what he now knows must have been patrol) and tucked him in, he doesn’t know. He also doesn’t recall whether it was ever mentioned again, or whether Alfred had kept his secret, if Bruce hadn’t been the one to put him to bed. The important part, the part that was impressed so deeply on his mind, was the empty bed that Dick had expected to find comfort in.

 

But his dreams, generally speaking, are pleasant enough.

 

* * *

 

Tim’s loft has a grand total of two ceiling lights, a bare lightbulb hanging over his kitchen, a milk crate for a coffee table, and more exposed brick than Crime fucking Alley.

 

His rent is probably double Jason’s annual income.

 

“Look,” Jason says through Tim’s open window. His hair is windswept, his leather jacket is still bloodstained, he has a lit cigarette in his mouth, and he’s lounging (attractively; or, if you wanted to be nitpicky, drunkenly) on Tim’s fire escape. He personally thinks this look belongs in GQ, along with the rest of Tim’s shitty overpriced condo. “I need your help.” Jason’s doing this thing where he decides not to be ashamed of his emotions and tries to actually deal with them, instead of subsuming them into unproductive anger. (He’s been doing a lot of googling lately.)

 

“What’s up?” Tim closes his chat with the superclone – okay, maybe that’s not fair, Kon’s a pretty cool kid – and turns to give him his full attention.

 

Jason thinks of ways to start. “Okay, uh. So, when I was a–” He frowns. He doesn’t need to tell Tim that. He doesn’t want to, either. “I mean.” He considers. “So, I want some short-term ways to forget about my problems and I figure you’re almost as fucked up as I am, so who better to ask?”

 

Tim blinks, and then _laughs_ , the fucker. “Wow,” Tim says, “that’s– I mean, thanks, I guess?”

 

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Jason says.

 

Tim gives him a small smile, quieter and more knowing than his laugh. Jason’s palms sweat. “I know.”

 

“So you got any advice, or are you just gonna laugh at me?” This is why Jason can decide not to be ashamed of his emotions; if someone decides not to take him seriously, he can blow their goddamn brains out. He’s a big fan of that method of emotional suppression, to be honest, but it’s a bit of a hassle if he’s already in bed and just wants something mind-numbing to help him sleep.

 

Tim shrugs, and provides Jason with absolutely no warning of the bombshell he’s about to drop. “Oh,” Tim says, all casual, “I just watch soap operas to process my emotions.”

 

Jason gapes. He almost falls off the fire escape. It’s a pretty close call, actually.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Tim shrugs. “It’s easier to watch fake characters go through weirdly cathartic pseudo-plots than deal with my own emotions. Everyone’s in conflict all the time, and then they figure it out and have dramatic confrontations.” Jason can’t help but admire Tim’s phenomenal lack of concern for the fact that Jason almost slipped under his shitty faux-ghetto fire escape railing to a gory, concrete-meet-fragile-skull death.

 

“I’m just.” Jason crawls closer to the windowsill and looks at him. Tim looks as underfed and sleep-deprived as he always does. Maybe the fact that he isn’t _dead_ is proof enough of the value of melodramatic daytime TV. “Soap operas, Tim.”

 

“Are you telling me Days of Our Lives isn’t a widely recognized gem of therapeutic programming?” Tim smirks. “Sometimes there are even sexy parts. Once one of the characters even took his shirt off. That’s right up your alley.”

 

Jason fights down the instinctive no homo bullshit that comes, unbidden, into his throat, and instead says, “Wow, my kind of show. Do they let the ladies bare their ankles, too?” Jesus, _soap operas_. Who’d have thought?

 

Tim chuckles. This may be their longest non-violent interaction in... well, ever.

 

“What do you do about it?” Tim asks. “If this is sharing time, I mean.”

 

Jason looks pointedly at the cigarette in his mouth. He tries to pretend he isn’t going cross-eyed.

 

“That’s it?” Tim looks him in the eyes, smile fading. _He knows_. Jason feels dizzy, nauseated, suddenly, and focuses on keeping his breathing even. He lets himself pick at the chipping paint on Tim’s fire escape to distract himself. The sudden onset paranoia is probably the booze. “Not to pry, Jason, but... you’ve got a lot more to forget than I do.”

 

Jason blows out smoke, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He looks around Tim’s room – perfectly calculated to look like the room of an Average Early Twenties Professional, probably – and spots a Blu-ray player, abandoned to what looks like a growing, sentient mass of clothing. “Well,” he says, only just thinking of it, the memory somehow lost until this very moment, “the first thing I did when I moved in to Bruce’s place was check out his movie set up.”

 

He realizes his mistake when Tim looks like he’s about to offer to watch a movie with him or something, because _fuck_ no. This was pointless. This whole conversation, fucking pointless. Jason hops down to the ground – feet first, thank you very much – before Tim can say a word.

 

* * *

 

Dick’s walking to this new coffee place a block away from the station when it starts to _pour_. It’s true, he’s probably still closer to the station than the cafe at this point, but he’s only got a fifteen minute break and he deserves a fancy drink, so he presses on. He turns over the new case that showed up on his desk this morning – a low-level security guard was found murdered in a back alleyway the morning after his shift at a WE-owned pharmaceutical building. It’s a tragedy, and anything related to Wayne Enterprises always makes Dick a little extra suspicious, but thus far it seems like something that doesn’t belong on the Bat radar.

 

After ten seconds, everything is soaked through – the pockmarked sidewalk, the sagging bellies of shop awnings, Dick’s jacket. His hair starts to drip in his face, but he ignores it to press on to the coffee shop. A droplet of freezing water hits the hollow of his throat, and trails a searing path down his chest. With the sound of the rain pounding down, he almost expects a hand to follow it. He shakes it off as he enters the cafe. He’d thought he was further away from it, but... well, actually, it’s been a full six minutes since he left the station. He’s a little disconcerted by how quickly it seemed to go by.

 

“Oh wow,” the barista says. Dick has completely missed the time between getting in line and getting to the counter. “Didn’t expect to be serving a supermodel today.”

 

Dick laughs, and runs his hand through his soaking wet hair. “Uh, thanks.” He’s not sure what to do. He looks at the name tag – JON, with a smiley face drawn next to it in Sharpie – and feels a little bad tearing him down, but he’s really not in the mood to flirt.

 

“Sorry,” Jon says, after Dick doesn’t say anything else. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. What can I get you?”

 

Dick is tempted to latch on to the professional conversation, but he knows he’ll regret it if he leaves Jon to feel shitty about Dick’s recent string of bad days, especially since normally he’d love to banter with any number of cute baristas. “Hey, no worries, I’m just– I’ve been having an off day. Week, whatever. Uh, I’ll get a latte.” He was going to ask for a recommendation – “the sweetest thing you got on the menu” is what he usually goes for when he’s trying new places – but it seems like a bad idea now that he’s just shot Jon down.

 

“Sure thing.” Jon rings him up, and Dick leaves the change in the tip jar, and tries not to feel sick when he sees Jon’s bright smile directed at him as he hands over his coffee.

 

It’s been happening for weeks; Dick knows that it’s ridiculous to feel unsafe walking around just because people find him pretty, and it’s not like strangers are falling over themselves to compliment him or anything. He’s just always worried about giving off the wrong impression. It’s one thing to say no to someone at a bar – Steph says she used to worry about it before she started training as Robin, and Dick’s sure most other women would feel differently than he does – but he finds he’s most uncomfortable saying no to people in casual situations. How do you say “oh, no thank you” when they haven’t even expressed explicit interest? How arrogant is it to assume that people who compliment your tie or your hair are automatically interested in having sex with you? How do you say no before it’s too late?

 

Dick scurries past Joanna at the front desk of the precinct, and pretends not to hear when she asks how his coffee break was. He got a latte. No, he didn’t try a croissant. No, there weren’t any cute baristas.

 

It was fine.

 

* * *

 

“Can I come home with you?” Dick blurts out, entirely without meaning to. _Shit_ , he’s so– it’s the rain, probably, this fucking _rain_ that just keeps– and he’s pacing, he never paces, why is it _raining_ so much?

 

Jason’s still got the helmet-mask-thing on, which makes sense since it’s a downpour out here, but it’s also just another cherry on top of the fucked up cake that is this night. First Dick botches a basic mob sting – jump right in! just break it up and send ‘em on out to the waiting GCPD cruisers! oh wait, he left one of the exits _wide open_ , _whoops_ – and runs into the Red Hood cleaning up his mess, then spends the rest of the night stumbling over rooftops, feeling too present in his body, the immediacy of his discomfort too pronounced to ignore. And now he literally asks if he can go home with Jason when he can’t even see the expression on Jason’s face. Is he going to get his head blown off in the next three seconds? Who knows! Certainly not Dick, who’s been off his game for the past six hours.

 

“What?” Jason removes his helmet – great, Dick’s made him mad enough he’s braving the weather – and raises an eyebrow. Then he smiles. “ _Dickie_ ,” he breathes, all innocent fifties cheerleader stereotype, “you know I’m not that kind of girl. I didn’t even know we were goin’ _steady_.”

 

“Fuck,” Dick says, pressing into his forehead as though that’ll rid him of the ache that’s been behind his eyes for weeks. He hadn’t even thought of that interpretation. “That’s not– I just meant–” but he doesn’t even know what he meant, does he? He’d just– he just wanted not to be alone tonight.

 

Fucking stupid.

 

Dick doesn’t realize he’s breathing faster, doesn’t even realize he’s breathing at all, until he starts at Jason’s hands on his arms. “Breathe,” Jason’s saying, “come on, asshole, what’s wrong with you, huh? Jesus, will you– fuck, okay, we’re going back to my place.”

 

Dick’s not sure what’s going on – he’s running, but only because Jason’s holding his hand and Dick’s not sure how to let go – and he tastes the rain, Gotham rain, who knows what’s in it, and it’s in his _mouth_ –

 

Jason stops to let Dick throw up the meager contents of his stomach (tea an hour before patrol, granola bar at one, half a cinnamon bun this morning), and then presses on before Dick can utter a word of complaint. “Okay, it’s okay,” Jason’s saying under his breath. Dick’s not sure if it’s meant for him.

 

“We’re here,” Jason says, opening the window next to the fire exit, and Dick’s been to that 24-hour Smokes ’N’ Gifts across the street two, maybe three dozen times. How had he never seen Jason? “I just moved here,” Jason says, as though he’s heard Dick’s thoughts. “And I’m moving the second you’re out, so don’t think it’ll be useful info if you tell B or anything.”

 

“I don’t even know how we got here,” Dick says, mostly honestly. “And I wouldn’t– I wouldn’t tell B. I won’t.” He’s gasping for breath, but Jason’s fine, which tells him this is more than the run – Dick’s usually got a pretty solid lead over Jason when it comes to shorter distances. Jay’s got the hours-long endurance, though. 

 

Jason shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me what you tell him. Now, let’s get you out of– is that _lycra_?”

 

“No,” Dick lies.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason says, “What the fuck–”

 

“Hey, I can’t move around like normal if I’m stuck wearing sheets of kevlar, okay, it’s not like it’s super thin or anything, it’s reinforced–”

 

“ _Reinforced lycra_ , Jesus God, I can’t believe this. Holy fuck.” Jason goes back to the kitchen, and then comes back out. “Okay, wait, don’t distract me, take it off.”

 

“But _Jason_ ,” Dick says, feeling just okay enough to fake normal, “I didn’t know we were goin’ _steady_!”

 

Jason sighs. “For God’s sake, will you just– I’m helping you here, okay? I want you to be able to put on some dry clothes, so you gotta take your wet ones off first. You can use the bathroom, if you wanna take a shower or just want some privacy, or you can change out here.” And Jason stalks off to the kitchen, leaving Dick with the lingering feeling that he’s offended him.

 

Dick does use the bathroom, and justifies it to himself by taking a shower, even though he (and Jason, probably) knows that he just didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him. He feels less like he’s about to have a heart attack – the hot water is good, and so is getting out of that rain – and now he just needs to... deal with Jason.

 

When he gets out of the shower, he finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt folded messily on the floor in front of the sink, with no underwear. He debates the merits of putting on his sweated-through and rain-soaked briefs for approximately one millisecond, before deciding to go commando. Both the sweats and the shirt end up being about two sizes too big, although the sweatpants are just the right length, which tells him that they’re probably just a little long on Jason.

 

He enters the kitchen to find Jason making tea, which is surprising on a number of different levels. He keeps his mouth shut, though, and sits on Jason’s couch.

 

Jason joins him, once the two mugs come out of the microwave (some things are not so surprising) and he’s put the teabags in. Dick takes a sip, and tastes something almost sweet, entirely floral. He meets Jason’s eyes, and says, “Thanks. It’s good. Didn’t think you were a tea person.”

 

He regrets it almost immediately after saying it, but Jason doesn’t respond. He just looks at him, frowning slightly.

 

Dick tries to hold his gaze, but it feels like Jason knows why Dick is like this, which is a lot to handle when Dick isn’t even sure of what’s happening in his own mind. So Dick looks into his tea, and drinks it, and feels ashamedly grateful when Jason doesn’t ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

 

He sees Jason put his mug down on the table, just in his field of vision. Dick holds his breath, but Jason just says, “Shit, Dick.” His hand hovers over his shoulder for a moment, but Dick’s too– too raw, too distant, too guilty, too _something_ to indicate approval, and Jason pulls away the promise of human contact before it can become realized.

 

So Jason stands up, and says, “There’s blankets in the closet,” and after a moment adds, “and benzos in the cabinet near the fridge. You look like you could use one, that’s for damn sure.”

 

“What?” Dick thought Jason wasn’t–

 

“I have a prescription, relax,” he says, which does actually relieve a significant portion of Dick’s worry.

 

“I, uh– I probably won’t–”

 

“Figured.” Jason shrugs. “Anyway. Let me know if you need anything.” He frowns, and says, “Knock on the door first, though.”

 

Dick nods, and watches Jason go to his bedroom, and hears the turn of a lock.

 

He decides to stay.

 

* * *

 

Tim is now Red Robin, has gone through hell, is absolutely a responsible adult in his own right, but Dick will never stop thinking of him as that precocious thirteen year old who was convinced that Bruce was Batman – and that he needed a Robin. Dick knows he’s made his mistakes with Tim – he’s not perfect, and they all self-destructed a little while Bruce was gone – but he’s proud to call him his little brother.

 

They patrol together more often now than they ever have before. This is part of their mutual olive branch extending: Dick for prioritizing Damian over Tim (which he can’t regret in some ways, knowing how lost Damian was without his father, but he knows he could have done better by Tim), and Tim for some perceived slight that Dick honestly wouldn’t be able to identify if you paid him to. It’s good to have so many of them working together; while Bruce is off doing God knows what across the world, they’ve rallied together to protect Gotham.

 

Dick can’t help but call them the “kids,” himself included, despite knowing that other than Damian they’re all over the age of 18. “Tonight’s movie night with the kids,” he’ll tell the Titans, or he’ll ruffle Damian’s hair and call him “kiddo” as he halfheartedly bats away Dick’s hand. They’re a family, even if it is a mildly incestuous and irregularly aged one, and Dick takes his duties as an older brother very seriously.

 

It’s raining, again. Dick stays at the edge of the rooftop, and feels safer with gravity pulling him towards the cars forty stories below than sitting securely in the middle of the unlit roof. He attributes this to a childhood spent in the air with no nets to catch him.

 

Dick looks out over the four square blocks of Gotham that are his for the next thirty minutes, when suddenly the comm in his ear clicks to life. “Looks like Red needs some assistance up on McGowan and Beverley. You free, N?”

 

“On it.” Dick swings over the five blocks to Tim’s location. “Red– report.”

 

For a moment, all Dick can hear is Tim’s heaving breaths and the background clanging of– _swords_? “League of Assassins. I can handle it.”

 

“Yeah, right.” Dick jumps onto the lower roof, and– holy shit there are four ninjas attacking Tim. “Okay, Red, let’s split ‘em up.”

 

Dick can hear Tim huff out a dissatisfied breath, but he nods and lets Dick hop up next to him. Dick grins and pulls out his baton. “I'm ready for a fight.”

 

But the assassins pull back. “We come with a message.”

 

Tim’s sigh is the only thing that clues him in–this is personal. “What is it?” Tim asks, sounding bored. He seems to have forgotten that, less than five minutes ago, these same people looked just about ready to skewer him. Again.

 

One of the assassins bows – what the _fuck_ – and starts speaking. “Ra’s al Ghul sends a message to you, Detective.” Dick’s surprised at the moniker, but even more shocked at Tim’s flinch. “His offer remains the same. He wishes for you to remember his immeasurable wealth and unlimited power. He asks that you consider–” and the ninja’s eyes flick to Dick, before they go back to Tim. “He asks you to reconsider joining the League of Assassins. Any conditions you name would be met.”

 

Tim’s hand shakes, once, before he pulls it into a fist. “Tell him I said no.”

 

The assassin’s head tilts. “If we cannot bring Ra’s al Ghul your consent...” The other ninjas advance slowly. “Then we must bring him your head.”

 

_What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ is running through Dick’s head on repeat, but Tim seems– calm. Resigned. What the fuck. What the fuck. “What the fuck is going on, Red?” Dick whispers into his mic.

 

“Later,” Tim says, and, well, fair enough. Dick takes a deep breath, and plunges into the fray.

 

The first strike of a blade against his baton sends shockwaves up his arm. His teeth clack against each other, and he pushes the stick into his opponent’s stomach. The next blade comes, and his hair flops into his face as his heart rate starts to climb. He keeps the other ninjas in his field of vision – Tim’s handling two, and Dick’s got two on him.

 

He’s careful to keep one of the assassins between him and the other, allowing the adrenaline to push him off the wall behind him into a front flip. He hears Tim’s huff of laughter – what _ever_ , Tim, he’s not going keep his advantage if he stays on the ground. His world condenses to the ninjas in front of him, the breath in his earpiece, the wind in his hair.

 

Dick blocks a fist to the face, pushes, tries to knock the sword out of the ninja’s hand. It doesn't work, unsurprisingly, and Dick is left scrabbling. He steps back, holding out his baton like a lifeline. He’s – carelessly – ended up facing the two of them head on.

 

Sweat pours down his neck. His breath burns in his throat. He ducks under a blade coming his way, and just barely manages to avoid getting his feet swept out from under him.

 

“Call off your guard dogs,” Tim pants; for one surreal moment, Dick thinks Tim’s talking to him, until he realizes Tim’s got his hands on one of Ra’s’ lackeys’ earpieces. “You won’t win this way.”

 

Ra’s says something Dick can’t hear, and the three assassins who still have their comms back off, the fourth one reluctantly following. Dick can’t help but feel grateful – any longer, and they would’ve had to call in the cavalry (as in: Spoiler, who’s back in town. As in: Tim gets embarrassed about calling in his ex to bail him out). Dick knows it’s only through their training that they’ve been able to hold their own against four members of the League of Assassins by themselves for this long.

 

“We will return,” one of them parrots. “Next time, you will say yes.” Mercifully, they leave before either of them has to respond. What do you even _say_ to that?

 

Dick shakes the chill from his sweat-soaked back, and moves to stand closer to Tim. Tim nods, and rappels off to his next stop. Dick supposes he’ll have to wait until after patrol ends to get answers, and doesn’t feel too bad about having an excuse to check up on Tim and take a look at his new place.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Tim brings Dick over to his monitor. It’s not like Dick is lacking for money, but the sheer magnitude of Tim’s setup is, quite frankly, shocking; it’s as though Tim thought, _what would the Batcave be like if it was more efficiently arranged so as to fit in a penthouse loft in downtown Gotham?_ and– well, come to think of it, that was probably the exact thought process. It concerns Dick how obviously peripheral Tim’s actual home is to his life; the upstairs civilian residential area, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, sprawling living room space, and beautifully appointed kitchen (even if the lighting leaves a little something to be desired), is worryingly empty of personal effects beyond the bare minimum needed to prove inhabitance. The downstairs floor no one knows about, which is only accessible by one staircase behind a bookshelf in Tim’s apartment, is where to find the evidence of life: empty mugs, stacks of paper, overflowing trash cans.

 

Dick’s got a study that’s locked, too, but his idea of Bat-level detective work is to pop in there every night to update his admittedly cliché bulletin board with major cases and cross things off the to-do list taped to the wall. He’s a little more of an interpersonal relations guy, and a little less of a brooding intellectual type. 

 

Oh well. Bruce had to have passed his habits on to at least one of them, in all that time.

 

“I think tonight’s break-in is related to Ra’s al Ghul,” Tim says. He pulls up an image of the relevant building in the Payne complex that was robbed tonight, and a report of items missing. They all seem pretty standard, just highly regulated painkillers and stimulants, the kind of stuff any number of mid-level drug lords would deal in.

 

“Hmm.” Dick scans over the list, trying to gauge what he’s missing. “Didn’t Spoiler handle that? Did she run into any trouble with assassins?” He doesn’t think so, but then again, he might have missed something while he and Tim were otherwise occupied.

 

Tim opens up another window. Dick is shocked to see his latest case – the murder of that security guard at a WE building. He _knew_ it would end up being a Nightwing thing! “She didn’t run into trouble at the time,” Tim says, “and they didn’t take anything that raised any flags. But look.” He runs through the list of corporation after larger corporation that own Payne Inc., and ends up at– “Wayne Enterprises.”

 

Dick frowns. How had he missed this? “You think Ra’s targeted both of these labs because they’re... owned by Bruce?”

 

Tim shakes his head. “I think he’s targeting both of these labs as a distraction from something bigger, and is using the fact that they’re both owned by Wayne Enterprises to throw us off the scent.”

 

That’s... paranoid. “You think he’s targeting Wayne Enterprises buildings and stealing relatively basic medical supplies to distract us? I mean, it’s definitely possible, but we only have two incidents, and no confirmation or evidence that either one was related to the League of Assassins.”

 

Tim shrugs. “I know it’s crazy–”

 

“Hey.” Dick nips that right in the bud. “It’s not, and you’re not. I’m not throwing the theory out, I’m just asking for clarification. I know I haven’t believed you in the past, and you were right then.” It doesn’t hurt him to admit it. Tim was right, and Dick was wrong, and that’s that.

 

Tim keeps going like Dick didn’t say a word. “I think it’s related, firstly because of the distant connection to Wayne Enterprises that would take a dedicated investigator to find, and secondly because of the timing.” He runs a hand through his hair, which always makes Dick want to tell him to cut it, and _that_ makes Dick worried he’s turning into Alfred. “He’s been stepping up his efforts to recruit me, and he’s been branching out in other countries. He hasn’t been doing anything _wrong_ , nothing I could hit him with, and definitely nothing significant enough to warrant intervention, but he’s been building his economic base and recruiting soldiers in Indonesia and Thailand, two of the few countries in east and southeast Asia where he doesn’t already have well-established ongoing operations.”

 

Well, first of all, “How do you _know_ this?” Dick perches on the desk next to Tim. “And secondly– _recruiting_? You didn’t mention that he’s been harassing you.”

 

“It wasn’t relevant. Now it is.” Tim types something – Dick refuses to give in to the urge to turn around and see what it is. It’s probably just an excuse for Tim to avoid giving this conversation his full attention anyway. “And in regards to your first question: I do my research.”

 

Dick has to laugh. “Okay, _Bruce_.” He thinks over the evidence Tim has presented to him. “Ra’s al Ghul is building an army and amassing even more money, and he’s sending randos to rob small-time pharmaceuticals that are tangentially linked to WE to... pull your pigtails.” 

 

“It’s a theory,” Tim says, quirking a smile.

 

Dick resists the urge to channel Bruce and say _This is no laughing matter_ , settling for a frank, “Well, that’s terrifying.” Tim shrugs it off, like he always does, right up until he gets a sword through the spleen. Dick still hates the fact that he only found out about that months after it happened.

 

He’s not sure that talking about this more will help – right now, there’s just not much else to follow up with – so he asks, “You gonna tell me why that ninja called you Detective?” It’s something that’s been bothering Dick since it happened; at the time, he’d only noted it, filed it away for later consideration, but now he can’t help but think of Bruce, of the way Ra’s had always called him _Detective_ , almost lovingly – almost paternally. Why would he use the same name for Tim?

 

“Really?” Tim looks up at him, finally, and Dick is taken aback by the harsh glint of his eyes, the dark circles under them that Tim always moves so expertly – so quickly – to hide, the hollows of his cheeks. He looks so different from the thirteen year old Dick still has in mind. When did he lose the baby fat? “You really can’t figure that one out?”

 

Dick’s sudden, mounting unease –  _fear_ – hits a plateau. Nothing could make him more concerned than he is in this moment. “Humor me,” Dick manages to say, unnerved by the look on Tim’s face, the look _of_ Tim’s face.

 

“He thinks of Bruce as a son-in-law,” Tim says. “I’m the–” he laughs, suddenly. “I’m the spare that suddenly became useful.”

 

“What?” Dick doesn’t– “Tim–”

 

“Clearly the experiment with Bruce and Talia didn’t work out the way Ra’s intended,” Tim reports, but it’s not even– it’s not a dig at Damian, because he _was_ an experiment, he _was_ a tool for his grandfather– “So he hoped to... shore up the ranks.”

 

Dick reaches out, but Tim catches his wrist gently, and sets it back down on the desk. “You know,” Tim says. “Assassin children. A second-in-command. The usual.” He smiles. “You know how much I hate to embarrass myself in front of Cass, but she’s an excellent rescue, and even better backup.”

 

Dick’s mind is skipping back to the same moment, like a scratched CD. No one listens to CDs anymore. Like a frozen laptop screen. “Were you–” He breathes in sharply. It’s not– it’s not possible. Dick doesn’t want anything to have happened to Tim, but– _everything’s all right, baby_ , the rain under his tongue _–_ he doesn’t want Tim to have– but it’s the only– _No_ , he thinks, but that’s never done much good, has it?

 

“Dick.” Tim brings him out of it with a hand on his knee. “Dick, you’re not understanding. That wasn’t–” He sighs, visibly frustrated. “Look, there were a lot of things that got fucked up. It’s not even...” Tim laughs, suddenly. “That wasn’t the worst of it. Nothing even happened, anyway, and when I was in– I mean, I thought, _at least this won’t hurt_. I guess at that point I’d just... gotten used to not being in control.”

 

Tim never talks about the year he spent under Ra’s’ thumb – ostensibly undercover, trying to break Ra’s’ organization apart from the inside, but Dick had never _asked_ , had never found out what that must have been like, living with the head of the League of Assassins in your ear, in your mind, day and night. Dick realizes he’s holding Tim’s hand and lets go, heart sinking when Tim takes the opportunity to retract his hand. He didn’t want to– to _make_ him. This conversation’s going all wrong.

 

“I talk to Black Canary every other week about all this shit, actually,” Tim says, which is enough to get Dick out of his weird spiralling dismay.

 

“Oh.” It’s an instinctive expression of surprise. Somehow he’d never considered... therapy. Bruce mentions it all the time, thinking he’s subtle, says Dinah’s about as qualified as you can get, but that there’re a couple folks at Leslie’s clinic who’re good too. Dick had never taken him – or rather, his suggestions – seriously before now. 

 

Tim laughs self-deprecatingly, and Dick realizes his mistake. “Yeah, I dunno, I just– I like having someone else tell me I’m doing a good job at getting over my shit. It’s not _super_ helpful, and obviously it doesn’t work for some–”

 

“Aww man, no, Tim, you don’t have to _justify_ it. It’s awesome that you’re taking care of yourself.” It _is_. He’s proud of Tim for taking advantage of the resources that they have; it’s what they’re there for. And clearly it’s working better than _not thinking about it_ as a strategy, considering the minor freakout Dick just had over the idea of something _bad_ happening to Tim.

 

Tim gives him a small smile, and Dick tries very hard not to let his gratitude show on his face.

 

“So anyway,” Tim says, as though their too-brief foray into Tim’s fucked up history with Ra’s was nothing more than a footnote in their conversation, “the labs.”

 

“Right.” Dick shrugs, taking a moment to reorient himself, and hops off the desk. “There doesn’t seem to be much we can do for now, other than upping security at every Wayne Enterprises pharmaceutical on this side of the Pacific and keeping an eye on Ra’s movements elsewhere.”

 

“Fair enough.” Tim sighs. “I just... I want to get ahead of him for once.”

 

“And we will.” Dick doesn’t risk putting a hand on Tim, not when he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want it, but he puts his hand on the chair next to Tim’s shoulder. “You will. You’re smart, determined, and a better investigator than any two-bit hack Ra’s could find.”

 

“That’s certainly a pep talk,” Tim says, offering up a small, pleased grin. Dick doesn’t like to think of how starved for affection Tim was when he first became Robin, but it’s unavoidable in moments like these.

 

Dick smiles back. “That’s what hanging out with the Titans will get you, kiddo.” He smiles even wider when the mention of the Titans brings a glow to Tim’s face, rather than the careful blankness that he’d adopted when nearly half his team was dead.

 

Tim leaves him alone in the downstairs cave (that’s what it _is_ , okay) to go upstairs and shower, and Dick tries not to think about the catastrophic magnitude of his trust.

 

He looks around at the desk, the filing cabinets around him, a single plate with a couple encrusted grains of rice abandoned to the wreckage of detective work. The spectre of Tim’s monitor looms over everything, casting a glow over the room, over Dick. He looks at the small laptop next to the giant screen, and walks closer to examine the sticker on the lid, one he remembers Steph was so excited about having custom printed. It’s a purple ( _eggplant_ , his mind insists) rectangle that reads: “MY EX-GIRLFRIEND IS COOLER THAN ME.”

 

He smiles. For all his worries, it seems like Tim really has his shit together.

 

* * *

 

Dick is currently losing his shit.

 

_This is so stupid_ , Dick thinks to himself. He’s currently pressed against a wall inside Bruce’s office as his secretary competently types away, completely unaware that her absent boss’s kid is hyperventilating in the supposedly break-in-proof office. It’s not like Bruce keeps anything valuable in here, Dick figures, except for maybe the twelve-thousand dollar couch. It would be pretty hard to steal a couch, though. You’d need either the kind of ropes they use to hoist up pianos – do they do that anymore? Dick will have to look into it – or a teleportation device. But any kind of large-scale teleportation device would probably cost more than a couple thousand bucks, so all in all, Dick thinks Bruce’s office is still pretty safe. His stock info is pretty much unhackable, even if physical access to this computer is a little less secure than it’s supposed to be.

 

So, anyway, Dick is rambling, because this is _so stupid_ he needs to distract himself from it. Who does this? Who sees an orange shirt and black leggings and immediately thinks _it’s her it’s her it’s her_ –

 

Not that it was. Logically, he knows that PTSD is probably a thing, and Tarantula’s a– well, she’s a villain. It makes sense. He shies away from the thought of her– of what she– of Blockbuster, and what he did, and what Dick let her–

 

So Dick’s a little fucked up. Whatever, it’s fine. He’s had things – freakouts, or breakdowns, or whatever – before, and he knows how to deal with them. It’s just hard, this time, because there isn't– he doesn’t know what this is _about_. He doesn’t know how to stop this one.

 

He breathes in, and out. He kind of feels like he wants to throw up. Actually, he hasn’t– now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t really eaten anything substantial over the past two days. How did that happen? He thinks back to his breakfast – half a banana – and before that, there was... well, there was that smoothie the other day. But the thought of the granola bar in his pocket – technically it’s for real emergencies, like if he gets trapped under a building or has to do some unplanned Nightwinging – makes him feel even more nauseous.

 

He pulls out his phone. He could call... well, he’s certainly not gonna call any of his younger siblings, and Bruce is out of the question. His options are the Titans or Babs, and as much as he loves his team, he doesn’t think it would be super appropriate to call any of them.

 

He hesitates over the call button. Is _this_ appropriate? What could he even say? How would Babs even help?

 

Before he can make a decision, his phone starts ringing. It’s Barbara. “Hello?” he answers, trying to sound like he’s not a fucking mess.

 

“You were hovering over my name for too long, Dick,” Babs says, and, well, it’s not like he didn’t expect her to have eyes on him. “What’s up?”

 

“Aw, geez,” he says. “Lead with the big stuff, why don’t you?”

 

Babs chuckles, and he can hear her pouring herself more tea. “Okay then, why don’t you tell me why you’re hanging out in Bruce’s office? While Bruce is in... huh. Wonder why he’s in Singapore.”

 

“Fuck if I know,” Dick says, more than a little bitterly. He winces, but Babs doesn’t call him out on it. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, and Dick _knows_ she knows how much he hates awkward phone silences. “I just, uh. Thought it would be safer here.”

 

Dick can hear Barbara take him more seriously. The background typing stops. “Are you in danger?”

 

He shakes his head. She’ll see it. “Not any real danger.”

 

She makes a small, curious noise at that. “Are you in... fake danger?”

 

He has to laugh at that. She’s not making fun of him – if anything, she’s mocking herself for being unable to figure it out. “Honestly, you’re not too far off the mark with that one, Babs.”

 

He reaches out to the carpet next to him, rubbing the soft fibers between his fingers. They’re soft, because this carpet is top of the line luxury, like the rest of Bruce’s stuff. He plucks out a single strand, and then smooths his hand along the seam of his pants, willing himself to stop picking at the fancy rug. “I dunno what’s up with me,” he says to Babs. He laughs. “Like, someone walks by and looks vaguely like Tarantula, and I’m– I get– I freak out. Is that– is that stupid?”

 

“No,” she says immediately, and Dick _knew_ that, but it still feels good to hear it. “Are you familiar with what a trigger is, Dick?”

 

He should be, considering the number of post-mission debriefs that have used the term in reference to _trauma_ and _survivor’s guilt_ and _emotional responses_ , but he’s surprised that Babs has brought it up. “Uh, I guess– like, when someone has a traumatic experience, and something reminds them of it, and it can cause– oh.”

 

Right. He’s a fucking idiot.

 

“Don’t feel bad for not realizing that could be what’s happening, Dick,” Babs says, her voice soft and kind like it always is when he needs it to be.

 

“It definitely is what’s happening,” he says. He looks down, and sees a bald patch in the fancy carpet, blue-gray fibers scattered. Fuck. “Shit, I gotta–” He needs to stop destroying Bruce’s shit. He needs to get out of Bruce’s office.

 

There’s a pause. Dick looks at the carpet and forces his fingers to stillness on his knee. “What do you have to do, Dick?” Babs asks, like she’s been waiting for a long time.

 

“What?” Dick frowns. “Sorry, I got– I got distracted.”

 

“That’s okay,” Babs says smoothly. “It’s easy to feel ashamed about feeling fear or anxiety or anger, or having trouble coping with trauma. Those reactions are valid.”

 

“Yeah,” Dick says. He’s thinking about Tarantula. The way she touched him, even though– even though he told her not to, because he’s– he’s– “I _killed_ someone,” he gasps, “I’m– I’m–”

 

“Breathe, Dick,” Babs says. “You didn’t kill Blockbuster. Tarantula did.”

 

She knows, she knows, fuck, what if she _knows_ – “I know what I am,” and Dick’s scratching, digging his nails into his palms to feel something, “I swear, I know– I’m _poison_ –”

 

“You’re not.” Barbara is unrelenting; powerful. If she says it, it must be so. “You’re not poison, you’re not disgusting, you’re not at fault.” He hears her breathe out, hears the quiet tapping of a pen against metal. “You didn’t kill Blockbuster.”

 

“I– I know that, but she– I let her–” his heart races, sweat dripping down his spine. This is what Scarecrow’s gas feels like– fuck, what if he _dies–_ too afraid for too long– there’s no antidote for this, he can feel his muscles clenching–

 

“She did what she wanted. Dick, okay, sure, you didn’t stop her, but you don’t have to shoulder that burden. I’ll be honest with you,” Babs says wryly, as though she isn’t always. “I don’t think Blockbuster’s death was a huge loss.”

 

Dick laughs, but it comes out as more of a sob than he wanted it to. “But she– I told her not to, I didn’t want– I’d stop her,” he says, unwilling to let go of the idea. The possibility. “If I could go back, I’d stop her from–” and he hates this, he hates the fact that this is true, but, “Not from– I wouldn’t stop her from killing him, but I wouldn’t let her–”

 

“What did she do? Dick, what did she do?”

 

Dick feels an intense shame. “We had sex,” he whispers, trying not to think about it. “Or, I mean– I don’t. I don’t remember most of it.”

 

He remembers crying. He remembers the rain, and that it was cold, and that he was shivering.

 

“What the fuck,” Babs says after a moment. “Dick, I’m _sorry_. Christ, that’s–” She cuts herself off. 

 

“Sorry,” Dick says, suddenly, irrationally convinced that he’s ruined something, “I’m sorry, it’s fine–”

 

“No.” The only other time Dick remembers hearing Babs sound like this was when Bruce hid the fact that Jason was back. She was _furious_. “Don’t apologize. And it’s not _fine_ , you’re not– clearly you’re not fine, and clearly Tarantula’s a disgusting piece of shit. God. I’ll fucking kill her.”

 

“Fuck, Babs, don’t–” Somehow, Dick is worried that she’ll actually do it.

 

“Okay,” Babs says, placatingly, “okay, I won’t, I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say, I just– Dick, you didn’t _deserve_ this. You know that, right?”

 

“I guess, yeah,” Dick says. It’s a lie, obviously. He’s still working through the idea that he might not have been an active participant. That he wasn’t the one hurting Catalina, the filth lurking in the shadows, contaminating, _tainting_ –

 

“It wasn’t your fault, and you weren’t asking for it. God. I’ll fucking–” and Dick can hear the violence that Babs bites back. “Are you still living in Blüdhaven?”

 

The question takes Dick by surprise which, strangely enough, actually clears his head. “Uh, yeah?”

 

His answer seems to make her even angrier. “God, what the _fuck_? Get _out_ of there, Dick. There are other heroes. You don’t have to stay there, God–”

 

“No, it’s–” He hadn’t considered leaving, hadn’t even realized that that was an option.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re not reminded of her every time you walk out of your apartment.” So Dick– doesn’t tell her. Barbara sighs. “Jesus, kid. You don’t have to suffer through this. Fuck, move to fucking Canada if you want, just don’t– you don’t have to stay there.”

 

He breathes out, and looks at the Gotham skyline from Bruce’s office. It’s a beautiful view, but it’s not _his_ , not anymore. “I don’t want to leave,” he tells her, only realizing it’s true once he says it. “I don’t want to leave Blüdhaven.” He’s not sure what the city’s ever done for him – in fact, he’s almost entirely sure the city’s given him nothing but grief, but it feels like a home.

 

That seems to be a recurring pattern.

 

“Okay,” Babs says, breathing out. She’s calmer now. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed, I know it’s not– God knows I know it’s not that easy.”

 

Dick thinks about Babs going back to visit her old man in their house, wheeling through the door the Joker knocked on that night. He thinks about Oracle, about Babs digging deeper into the life that brought her nothing but pain and trauma. They both have a bad habit of holding onto things that aren’t good for them.

 

“It’s okay,” Dick says, admiring Bruce’s view. It's temporary, he knows, but it feels like Barbara’s anger has pushed him through the emotional turmoil into something resembling peace. “Nice to know you’d support me if I wanted to go live among the moose.”

 

Babs laughs, and graciously ignores the sound of Dick wiping snot off his own face. Her voice is sober when she says, “I love you. You don’t have to go it alone.”

 

“I love you too,” Dick replies, instinctively. It’s past romantic for them, something inexplicable. “And – I know.”

 

He admires Bruce’s view, and feels marginally more at home.

 

* * *

 

“How’s Steph doing out there?” Tim asks. As though they are at dinner. ‘Catching up.’

 

They are 30 stories above street level.

 

“Good,” Cassandra says. She pauses at the next rooftop, to look at Tim. He lets her. “Happy.”

 

His body language reads: _pleased, sad, lonely, grateful_.

 

Aloud, he says, “I’m glad.”

 

Cassandra nods, and moves to the next rooftop. Tim says nothing, which she appreciates; she enjoys being let into conversations, and treated with respect, and spoken to even if she couldn’t reciprocate at first, but the chatter that Dick and Steph love is sometimes too much for Cass to manage. Tim chooses his words carefully, even if it is less carefully than she does.

 

It’s a quiet night so far. “Do you want to visit us?” Cassandra asks. It’s a fair question; he misses Stephanie, and Cassandra, too, even if that’s less obvious. He seems hesitant to see them, though, which is understandable. She wonders if teenage boys can ever resist ruining friendships with ill-timed romance.

 

“I’d–” Tim starts, but they both hear a _crack_ against the brick below. “Hold that thought.”

 

They both descend to the alley below. Three large, muscular men; one frightened woman. A baseball bat, and a splintering dent in the brick next to her. It’s an all too common scene.

 

Cass disarms the one with the bat first, a fist to the jaw, twisting back the elbow, kicking in the knees. He’s collapsed, heaving out blood. Red Robin takes the other two, baton to both stomachs in quick succession, zip ties in hand before they can react. Cassandra gets a smug satisfaction out of hanging them off the nearest streetlight by their feet, their sweat-soaked tees bunched up near their armpits, leaving their now-bruising bellies exposed to the night air.

 

“Are you okay?” Tim asks the woman. Cassandra lets him do this, since he usually knows the right words to say; she always stays close, though, in case the civilian is unwilling to speak to a man, and to be a visible witness.

 

“Fine,” she says, ready to leave but hesitant to push past Red Robin. Cassandra pulls him out of her way, and nods at her as she walks past.

 

“Fuck this,” Tim says, once she is out of earshot. “ _Fuck_ this shit.”

 

Cassandra nods, and kicks the three hanging menaces on her way past for good measure. She is too familiar with violent men.

 

They follow the woman from the rooftops of nearby buildings, just to make sure she gets home safe. They are both uncomfortable with doing so without her permission. “About your question before,” Tim says. “Do you want me to visit?”

 

It’s a good question. She wants to say _yes_ , but considers that Stephanie might have a different answer. “Oh,” she says, realizing.

 

Tim smiles, slightly, and nods, and reaches for his grappling hook a little more quickly than he had before.

 

“Stop,” she says. “Yes. We want you to visit.”

 

It feels true.

 

“Okay.” Tim smiles, more fully. “I will.”

 

Cassandra smiles, too, and is the first to jump to the next rooftop.

 

“Next block?” Tim asks, as if they need to remind each other of the patrol schedule. She takes no offense, though, and nods. They fly across the city, covering their blocks efficiently.

 

A gunshot breaks through their complacency. They grapple over to the source; it’s a Wayne Enterprises lab. A full-on gunfight has broken out, glass cracking, civilians scattering, screaming.

 

There are two hostiles: a slim person with their face covered completely, and a very muscular man dressed like a bouncer. The bouncer hoists up a machine gun, points it at the glass already riddled with bullet holes, and Cass jumps in.

 

At first, he doesn’t realize she’s on his back, and she has the upper hand; she knocks the gun out of his hands, and punches him in the face. He reaches for her, but she has speed on his bulk, and jumps off his shoulders, just at the perfect height to jab at his kidneys. Then she loses her advantage; his elbow connects with her collarbone; he pulls out a pistol; he fires at her and misses, by a bare half-inch.

 

This – the burn of her muscles, the twinge of poorly-treated decade-old scars – is familiar.

 

She kicks him in the crotch, unforgiving, breathes _out_ as she snaps his dominant wrist, pulls him down as he howls, and knocks his head against the ground, into silence.

 

She pockets the pistol, and looks around. Tim is standing over the single security guard, who is lying in a pool of his own blood, dead.

 

“I let the– the other guy get away,” Tim says. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”

 

Cassandra notices the bloodstained overshirt in Tim’s hand, the wet sheen on his kneecaps. “You did what you could,” Cass says, because she’s learned that it’s what you are supposed to say, and because it’s true. She doesn’t address the escaped hostile, instead focusing on the unconscious man below her, zip tying his hands together and searching for some evidence of his identity.

 

Tim breathes out, and Cassandra watches him become composed. “Take a look at this arrowhead,” Tim says, calling Cass from her task. The bouncer didn’t have any identification anyway.

 

She steps over his unconscious form to look at the arrowhead Tim has removed from the security guard’s stomach. Police sirens are sounding closer and closer, though, so Tim slips the arrowhead into his utility belt, and they run.

 

* * *

 

“Fucking Ra’s,” Dick says, looking at the arrowhead Cass has placed on Jason’s dining table. “You really think he’s doing all this just to send you a message?”

 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Tim says, frustrated. “And neither does Cass.” She nods in confirmation. “That’s why we need your help.”

 

“Do we even know it’s Ra’s?” Jason asks. “Could be Talia.”

 

Tim frowns. “Not– well, I mean–” He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t mean to make it all about myself–”

 

“Really, replacement?” Jason laughs.

 

“–but I’ve never really had any kind of enmity with Talia. Most of my interactions have been with Ra’s.” Tim looks at the list of break-ins at Wayne and Wayne-adjacent labs. “Look, none of these items are difficult to steal or buy, especially for someone like Ra’s al Ghul. There’s gotta be some reason why there are League of Assassins members breaking in to Wayne Enterprises labs, letting themselves be seen, and leaving with basic chemicals. And out of all of us, there are three who have a strong relationship to the company, and that’s Bruce, Damian, and me.”

 

“But there’s one other person who has a... relationship with the al Ghul family.” Jason looks around at all of them. “Me.”

 

Tim leans back. Ah, shit. Dick doesn’t want to think it, but– could they really have _forgotten_ that? Could they have forgotten how Jason came back?

 

“So let’s say it’s Talia,” Cass says into the silence. “Why? Why would she come here?”

 

“Hey,” Jason says, “maybe it’s an elaborate booty call.”

 

Jason’s comment is so out of left field that it strikes Dick speechless for a good ten seconds. “What the hell does that–?” he starts, already knowing the answer, already _hating_ the answer.

 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, calm down, it was just a joke–”

 

“That’s not a _joke_ , Jason. Are you saying you slept with Talia–” for fuck’s _sake_ , Jason–

 

“Fuck, who cares, I was barely out of the pit then anyway–” _oh–_

 

“What the _fuck_.” Dick sucks in a lungful of air, and only realizes he’s pounded the table because of the sharp ache winding its way up his wrist. He takes a step back. “Sorry, fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

 

“Jesus,” Jason murmurs, barely audible. “Christ, Dick.”

 

“Sorry,” Dick says, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, pushing his hair back. “Fuck, I just– I’m _sorry_ ,” and he’s not talking about the table. “I’m so sorry that happened to–”

 

“Don’t even start,” Jason says. “I know what you’re thinking, and it wasn’t that.”

 

“Guys,” Tim starts softly, but Dick can’t hear him over the sudden rushing in his ears.

 

“It wasn’t what, Jason?” he asks, knowing it’s cruel, knowing he really fucking shouldn’t. “Do you wanna tell us what it _wasn’t_ –”

 

“It wasn’t fucking _rape_!” Jason snarls. “Look, I know rape, all right, and this wasn’t– I mean, sure, maybe it was a little sketchy, but fuck, not like _that_. Christ, Grayson, everyone knows Tarantula fucked you up, but we’re not all _you_.”

 

Tim looks up, and the humiliation of– of the fact that they all _know_ , and– Dick has only just learned that there’s no gray area in consent, and that’s–

 

If Jason was just out of the Lazarus Pit, then (a) Jason was not in his right mind, so (b) consent was violated, which means (c) there must be a perpetrator. There’s no other formula, there _can’t_ be, because then that means maybe Catalina wasn't–

 

“Stop,” Cass orders. Dick blows out a long breath. Jason turns to lean against the wall. “This is helping neither of you.” Her tone softens. “I know... I know not feeling like you own your body. I know when it is hard to– to be angry at the person who hurt you, because they hurt too.” She frowns, searching for the words (or, maybe, giving them time to prepare for her next ones). “But you’re not–” She blows out a breath, annoyed. “You don’t _help_ each other when you yell. Why hurt each other? Just because you have different understandings of, of each other’s experience, you–”

 

Her hand shakes, and then– she pulls her shirt up, to reveal the scars on her abdomen. “She gave these to me. My mother.” It’s a story they all know, intellectually, but Dick balks at the evidence of Cassandra’s death. “But she was so– she _hurt_ , so much–” Cass lowers her shirt back over her body. “I can’t blame her. I can’t.” She looks at both of them. “It’s different. I know it’s different. But– you see these, and you see a woman who challenged her daughter to a death match. I see a woman who– who was forced to have a child that–” Dick watches, feeling fucking useless, as Cass’s hand hovers over the space where her scar sits. She shakes her head. “We see different wounds. Don’t make them hurt worse.” Cass takes in a deep breath, as if to say something else, but then, instead, she stalks out of the apartment.

 

There’s a beat of silence, before Tim gathers up the things on the table. “We’ll talk about this stuff later,” he says quietly, slipping out of the door.

 

Dick looks around at the space where Jason has welcomed him, the space he’s called home for the past couple of days. The space where Cassandra just shared something terrible with them – fuck, Dick hopes Tim went after her – to stop them from tearing each other apart. “Shit. Jason,” he sighs, starting towards the other end of the room, “I’m–”

 

“Get out.” Jason’s palms are pressed to the chipped varnish of his table. His hair is shaking in front of his eyes.

 

“Jason–”

 

“Get _out_.” Jason looks up at Dick, looks him right in the eyes.

 

Dick gets the hell out.

 

* * *

 

The Manor isn’t welcoming, exactly, but it’s big enough and far away enough (from Blüdhaven, from the present) to feel something like safe. For two days, Dick eats when he is offered food, answers questions when he’s asked them, and waits. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, yet, not until Alfred sets an open photo album on the dining table.

 

“Master Timothy was kind enough to provide us with a selection of his photographs,” Alfred says quietly, as Dick stares at a thirteen year old Jason, smile bright on his face.

 

Dick looks at the assortment of photos in the spread of him and Jason and Bruce, in and out of costume. “What is this, Alfred?”

 

Alfred flips the page; Dick, at fourteen, is smiling reluctantly at a gala while Bruce schmoozes in the background, and across from him is a photo of Bruce with a proud hand on twelve year old Jason’s shoulder. “These are memories, Master Dick,” Alfred says. The page turns again; on the left is a photo of him and Barbara on a roof, foreheads pressed together, a photo he never even knew existed. Alfred’s hand trembles, and the photo of Dick and Babs flutters gently. “These are happy memories.”

 

Dick swallows. “Alfred–”

 

“I know you’ve been hurt.” Alfred’s hand smooths its way over the corner of the page as Dick’s mind goes carefully, instantly blank. “I’ll not ask you to tell me about that. I only wish to remind you of the home you have. The home you’ve had ever since that first day Master Bruce brought you here.”

 

Dick looks at the photo of himself and Barbara, silhouettes on a rooftop in Gotham dawn. He closes his eyes for a long moment, and makes himself acknowledge the photo on the facing page.

 

Jason. He’s gotta be fifteen, maybe even sixteen. So close to when he-

 

It’s a close up photo, right in Jason’s grinning face, but that doesn’t make sense. Or at least, it doesn’t make sense unless Jason _knew_ that a preteen Tim was following him around with a polaroid, which is– somehow that’s _worse_ , knowing that Tim actually met Jason. Knowing that Jason used to be Robin, was once the kind of guy who made faces for a superfan’s camera on a rooftop–

 

“Jason, too,” Dick says hoarsely, unable to recognize his own thoughts. “He’s been hurt, too, and– I don’t know what to do. I _can’t_ , Alfred,” he says. “I can’t do this.” 

 

Alfred’s hand – not trembling now, but strong, like he’s had to be since Bruce was younger than any of them are now – comes to rest on Dick’s. “My boy,” he says, “that’s hardly your burden to bear.”

 

“But I’m the eldest,” Dick says desperately, “I’m supposed to be–”

 

“You are _supposed_ to be healing, and resting, and letting those around you take care of you.”

 

“I guess,” Dick says. “I just feel like I have to–”

 

“Master Dick,” Alfred admonishes, “you are not responsible for the workings of the world around you.” Then Alfred’s face softens, and he sighs. “And I’m sorry. Oh, my dear boy, I’m _sorry_.”

 

And that– that’s what breaks it. Dick shudders in a deep breath, and remembers what it felt like to be with Barbara there on that roof – so exhilarating, so _unafraid_ – and he’s crying, big gulping sobs, as Alfred walks around the table to hold him. “I hate this,” Dick is whispering, barely aware he’s doing it, “I hate this I hate this I hate this–”

 

Alfred holds him closer.

 

* * *

 

Dick trudges up to his old room, and he left the dining room _sad_ , but now? Now Dick is fucking furious. The fact that this has happened to so many of them – these kids, his _brothers_ , his fucking – he’s shaking, he realizes distantly, he’s so angry he’s _shaking_ , which has never happened before. He doesn’t know what or who he’s so mad at, just remembers how _casual_ Jason was, remembers the fact that Tim had– had gotten _used to not being in control_ , which is– he’s fuming, directionless, until the burning rage coalesces into one focal point: Bruce.

 

He picks up his cell phone, the one with his family’s numbers in it, and waits for it to ring. He knows – this is so stupid – he knows there’s hardly a chance Bruce will pick up his civilian phone, but he’s not going to use a fucking _comm_ for this, and he needs. He needs Bruce to pick up.

 

And, miracle of miracles, he does.

 

“Dick?” He sounds concerned, fatherly, which is somehow– somehow _worse_ than his distracted, drunk Brucie voice. He sounds concerned. How _dare_ he.

 

“What the hell have you done to us?” Dick asks. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but now that he’s started, the words come pouring out of him, right over Bruce’s shocked confusion. “They– do you know what happened to them? You–” _fuck. fuck fuck fuck_. He latches onto the only tangible thing he can think of. “Ra’s al Ghul. You know what he is, what he’s done. And you still let him– Talia and her father are in our _lives_ , Bruce. You could have warned us about what that whole fucking family’s like, before Jason, and Tim– shit, Bruce. You never warned us. You never told us about this. You never told us how to keep ourselves safe. You keep telling us you’re our _dad_ and you can’t even protect us when we need it?”

 

Bruce is silent. “Dick, what are you talking about?” He says it gently. Dick doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

“Like you don’t know,” Dick spits out, recognizing faintly that it is, indeed, possible for Bruce to have no idea what the shit he’s talking about. “Like you don’t know what happened to Jason, what Ra’s tried to do to Tim, what–” and fucking insult to injury, he stumbles over his words– “what happened to me, you didn’t–” Everything comes back to that empty bed, for him, the safety he expected pulled out from under him. “You weren’t there.” He’s crying, now, which is at least less of an embarrassment than this whole call, this whole useless phone call that’s not going to do anything but keep Bruce in fucking Iceland or wherever the fuck he is now for an extra six months.

 

“Dick,” Bruce grates out. He sounds like he’s about to cry. “Jesus, kiddo, what happened?”

 

Dick pushes the heel of his hand into his eyes, rubbing at them to stave off the tears for at least another ten minutes. He’s so angry, at the violation that was done to him, to his _little brothers_ , and he’s angry at the education that failed them (billions of dollars, and Bruce couldn’t find anyone to talk to his kids about consent, about rape, about being a man and being a victim at the same time).

 

“So many of us have been–” Dick can’t even say it. What a fucking coward. “We get hurt all the time. We get shot at and beaten up and killed–” and that wound’s not closed for either of them, both pausing at the memory of Jason’s grave, Stephanie’s funeral. Bruce’s... death. “But we’re prepared for it. We know to expect that. We trained for it.” Dick doesn’t know how to express the distinction between sexual and non-sexual violence. He doesn’t know how to ask for training to ignore the leers of overly confident henchmen who call him pretty boy, to ignore the catcalls when he bends over to help up a kid who’s tripped on the sidewalk. To ignore the violation of hands pulling open his pants when he was too stunned to move. “Do you know– I just.” He breathes in, but the breath trickles out before he’s ready, loud and ugly. “ _Dad_ ,” he finally gets out, so fucking ashamed for no reason he can identify. “So many of us have been... assaulted,” and that’s a word that’s close enough for what he’s experienced. What he is. “Why? What is it about us–”

 

Bruce inhales, close enough to the received that Dick can hear every crackle of breath. “Dick,” he says. “God, Dick. I don’t know.” He chuckles bitterly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know any of you had– well. I guess that proves your point.”

 

Dick frowns. He’d called in anger – he’s still angry, although he can’t quite pinpoint _why_ – but this wasn’t what he called Bruce for. “No, it’s not– it’s not about that. Just... I’m just.” Dick breathes out. “I just don’t understand why it happened to so many of us. And I just... didn’t want to be silent anymore.”

 

Bruce says, “I’m going to be in Gotham tomorrow morning. I don’t know what the right thing to say here is. But if you want to see me, I’ll be there. And you’re not alone.” He speaks with the directness, the unrelenting rhythm that Dick recognizes from when he forces himself to say hard things. He remembers it from when Bruce first spoke to Jason after he came back. “I don’t want you to feel that you should be ashamed of what happened to you. It’s not your fault. You can still be strong and a hero while acknowledging your trauma. It’s not anything to feel shame about, Dick.”

 

He takes a pause, but Dick knows there’s something else coming. “This can happen to anyone – to people you look up to, to your heroes. I don’t know if I’m someone you look up to anymore. But I can tell you from personal experience that it does get better. That in five, ten years, you won’t feel as angry or as helpless as you do right now.”

 

Dick’s breath pushes out of him like he’s been punched.

 

“Shit. Bruce. Oh shit, Bruce, I’m sorry–”

 

“Don’t be.” He’s all business now, but Dick can hear the kindness in his voice now that he’s looking for it. “You called me to ask for the support I should have been giving you – all of you – from the start. You expected me to be a father. Don’t apologize for that.” They’re both silent for a moment, until Bruce starts speaking again. “I was oblivious, and then afraid. When you were a kid–” Bruce cuts himself off. Dick holds his breath. “Dick, were you a child when–”

 

“No.” Dick’s not sure why it matters, but he knows it does; it would have been worse, or more incomprehensible, or maybe Bruce would feel like more of a failure. He can’t speak for anyone else, but he can give Bruce this, whatever it is. “No, I wasn’t. It didn’t happen while I was living with you.”

 

He breathes out. He shouldn’t have had to say that. He needed to say that. He acknowledged that something happened, and the ground didn’t shake apart beneath him.

 

“I shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m sorry.” Dick gives him silence, and Bruce takes it for what it is. “My point– whatever the value of it is, my point is that I was oblivious, and when you were my ward, I didn’t even consider this as a possibility. I never spoke to you about being safe or about consent because I was ignorant. My ignorance hurt you. I’m sorry for that, too. And later...” Bruce is gearing himself up for something; Dick both hates and loves the fact that he knows this by the changes in Bruce’s breathing, the quality of his pauses. “After Talia raped me, I was afraid. I didn’t want to reveal what I then perceived as a weakness, a personal flaw. I assumed that she wouldn’t do this to anyone else, and I assumed that you– that somehow all of you were too... I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re my children. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to think about what happened. Maybe it’s because I am weak, for different reasons than the ones I had originally imagined. But I failed you because of it, and I’m sorry.”

 

Dick’s fingers feel numb. He doesn’t know what to do with this, but at least he feels somehow safer now that Bruce has uttered the word _rape_ , and is still secure, still unchanged from who he was five minutes ago. His mouth starts running on autopilot. “You’re not weak. There were some things that might’ve– but now that I think about it, I’m not sure what you could have done. Apparently they talk about sexual assault resources in high school sex ed nowadays. But when I was in high school? You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known that this would happen. And after Talia...”

 

Dick recognizes, intellectually, that Talia was also someone Jason mentioned, and is Damian’s mother, but it’s– the name ignites concern, but that flame dies out almost instantly. He doesn’t have the energy to pursue it. “I could never blame you for not wanting to tell us,” he gets out eventually, suddenly exhausted. “Bruce, I called you because I wanted answers. You’ve given me those.”

 

“I owe you more than an explanation, Dick. You and... everyone else.”

 

“Okay, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to argue. I don’t–” Dick is too tired to be doing this. His breath is coming too fast. “Can we have this conversation when you get here?”

 

“Tomorrow, then.” Bruce seems like he’s about to hang up, but adds, quietly, as though if he speaks it too loud it might hurt to hear, “This wasn’t your fault, Dick. You know that, right?”

 

Dick can’t believe this is happening. Four people –  _at least_ four people, he thinks, shuddering – who’ve been through this, in one family. What the fuck is their luck. “Yeah,” he hears himself saying. “I know.”

 

“All right.” Bruce stays on the line for a moment, and Dick revels in the sound of his breath, the illusion of closeness. He didn’t know how much he’d missed him until now. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call, Dick?”

 

Dick laughs, more breath than anything else. “It’s fine, I’m in the manor. Go, Bruce. I’ll see you tomorrow. And...” he couldn’t have imagined saying this at the beginning of this call, but he has to, now. “Thanks.”

 

Bruce makes a noise like he’s been hurt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dick.”

 

Dick would respond, but he loses some time – he’s floating, kind of, but it’s more worrisome than freeing, and he wants back in his body – and returns to see that Bruce has hung up on him. Good; he hopes he wasn’t listening during the last five or – fifteen, fuck – minutes of Dick being lost in lala land. He puts – drops, more like – the phone on the bed next to him, and lies down. He’s tired.

 

His phone buzzes with a text from Wally –  _hey dick just wanted 2 ask how ur doin, we havent rly talked in..._ reads the notification preview – and, two minutes later, an email from Lucius with URGENT in the subject line, but he definitely can’t handle either of those right now. He leaves the phone where it is on the pillow, too tired to put it on the table beside his old bed, and closes his eyes. He has to think about what this means – what Bruce _revealed_ – and decide on what he’ll say to Bruce tomorrow. He will, in a second. He just needs to... center himself. Maybe he needs to eat something; he has the sharp headache and numb lethargy he associates with low blood sugar.

 

In two minutes, Dick’s fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

Bruce is still reeling from the shock of having been told about Damian – Christ, his _son_ – less than two days ago, but he keeps his composure on the flight home from the oil rig in Scotland, through the mission reports, and manages to hold it together until Damian is safely in bed. He figures his son – oh _fuck_ – probably won’t wake up for at least another 6 hours. At least, he hopes not, considering the trauma he’s sustained. Bruce shouldn’t have left him to hold his own against Deathstroke; the kid ended up with a blade through both forearms. What a fucking nightmare.

 

Not that the rest of this situation is any better. Alfred stitches him up, and makes some comments about Damian being the spitting image of his father, especially when attempting to refuse medical care, which is– a lot. To handle. He refuses to take the cowl off. He’s not ready to be Bruce yet.

 

“You okay?” Dick asks. Bruce shakes himself out of it. He’s not the only one who’s had a shock these past few days.

 

“Fine.” Bruce shoulders past Dick, and ignores him calling out. He’s tired of being responsible for other people.

 

Bruce strips down to shower and resolutely ignores the memory of Talia’s lips on his. He refuses to spend extra time washing his hands. His armor wouldn’t have let any water from the Lazarus pit inside. The feeling of slime on his legs is purely psychosomatic.

 

He can’t stop thinking about Damian. How he must be feeling right now. His parents don’t get along, he’s been separated from his mother, and he doesn’t know- he doesn’t know why Bruce can barely stand to look at him.

 

Jesus. He has to get a grip.

 

Bruce finishes rinsing off the grime – manbats and a Lazarus pit oil rig, Christ, who _thinks_ of this shit – and pulls his sweatpants on. He ignores the urge to put a shirt on. If there were any real danger, it wouldn’t make a difference.

 

He does yield to the impulse to hide his face in a towel as he walks out of the showers; he’s not ready to see the look on Dick’s face as he realizes what the hell Bruce has gotten himself into.

 

This is what he gets for having a– an _affair_ with Talia al Ghul. 

 

Dick’s typing away once Bruce manages to poke his head out of his towel. “Almost done here, B,” he says. Dick’s changed into a pair of sweats, and he’s got new bandages and stitches.

 

“Alfred’s looked at your injuries,” Bruce says. It’s not a question.

 

Dick huffs out a laugh. “That’s why they call you the detective, bossman.” 

 

Bruce can’t shake the feeling of something– of something being wrong. He wishes he’d pulled away when Talia kissed him next to that pit. He wishes he’d pulled away when Talia reminded him of their _shared moonlight_.

 

He wishes he’d recognized sooner that there was something in his drink.

 

“Get some rest.” Bruce moves to walk up the stairs, but Dick’s voice halts him in his tracks.

 

“You don’t wanna talk about this?” He sounds incredulous.

 

“What’s there to talk about?” Bruce responds, which is maybe one of his lesser comebacks, if he’s honest with himself. He tries to avoid doing _that_ at all costs, though.

 

Dick’s hopped over to stand next to him, and laughs in his face. “Are you for real? Like, I don’t know, maybe _the fact that you and Talia al Ghul have a kid_?”

 

Bruce’s fingers tighten in his towel. Right. “Talia al Ghul and I have a kid. Next question.” He wants to put his towel on the bench next to the showers, but he doesn’t want it to seem like he’s running away from this conversation – even if, right now, a batarang to the stomach would be a reprieve.

 

Dick sighs. “Bruce. Come on.”

 

Bruce slings the towel over his shoulder. His hands feel empty – unprotected. “It happened. It was one night. I don’t–” He’s tempted to say _I don’t remember most of it_ , but he can’t bring himself to say that to his eldest son. He can’t open himself up to hearing Dick say _wow, sounds like a fun night_ when it was– when it was anything but that. “I have complicated feelings towards Talia, but I have a responsibility to Damian. He’s not unwanted, and I won’t treat him like he is.”

 

“Of course not, Bruce,” Dick says, ever the diplomat. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant– I mean, this has got to be a shock.”

 

“Yes.” Bruce finally makes himself turn to put the towel on the benches. It’s ten feet away. He takes it one step at a time. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

Dick ends up eating dinner at 10 pm in the kitchen as Damian pelts rubber bullets at Tim’s head from the chandelier. They have a chandelier in their kitchen. Wayne Manor’s still a fucking trip sometimes, even after more than 15 years.

 

Damian’s mostly grown out of antagonizing Tim, and as unbelievable as it would have been only a year ago, the two of them have inched their way out of frenemy territory into outright friendship, or, at the very least, allyship. But they sometimes revert back to casual violence or cutting sarcasm like it’s muscle memory; Dick can’t blame them, considering he’s well out of his teens and still eating Cheerios by the handful out of the box.

 

It’s nice to be able to ground himself like this, Dick thinks. His feet are bare, like they always are in the manor (to Alfred’s great consternation), and his thin shirt leaves him plenty able to feel the counter digging into his back. The Cheerios are crisp and crunchy and don’t leave anything more than a light powdery dust on his fingers that’s easily wiped off on his sweatpants (to Alfred’s even greater consternation).

 

The nap settled most of the tension in him, but he wishes he had a way to identify his own feelings. Oh, he can cobble together a few words – anxious, tired, angry, _heavy_ – but they’re not– none of them get it right. He wishes he knew more of his parents’ language; he envies the self-satisfied smirk Cass wears when she calls Bruce _makulit_ , and the way Damian will sometimes slip and say _yalla_ instead of _come here_. He remembers a little Romany, and occasionally pronounces the final consonant too sharply when he says _dad_ , but it’s not– he’s sure there’s gotta be a word, in his mother’s language, in _any_ language, that expresses this inexpressible mixture of hesitance and vigilance and bone-deep exhaustion borne of letting your fears out too loudly.

 

“Grayson!” Damian shouts imperiously, “command Drake to unhand my footwear at once!”

 

Dick looks up, and sees that Tim does indeed have one of Damian’s shoes in his hand, and is using it to shield himself from the projectiles Damian is somehow still throwing at him. Where does he keep them all? “Damian,” Dick says, still leaning against the counter, “maybe if you stopped throwing things at Tim he’d let you have your shoe back.”

 

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Tim growls, scrabbling for something on the granite island behind him without letting Damian out of his sight.

 

Dick steps forward, moves the confiscated freeze ray (why is that _up here_?) out of Tim’s reach, and places a clean sock (why is _that_ up here?) in his hand. Damian pauses in his rubber bullet attack on Tim, wide-eyed, as Tim unthinkingly lobs the sock at him.

 

It lands unassumingly next to Damian’s shoe-clad foot.

 

The chandelier sways.

 

There’s a moment of astonished silence, before the kitchen erupts into chaos.

 

“ _Dick_ , what the–”

 

“Of all the demeaning–”

 

“–a _sock_ , come on–”

 

“–disrespectful, unworthy attack–”

 

“–at least a _fork–_ ”

 

“–hardly need to ask for my shoe, when he’s handed me a–”

 

“– _unsanitary_ , we’re in the _kitchen_ –”

 

“Young masters.” Alfred steps into the kitchen, barely sparing the sock or the fourteen year old on the light fixture a second glance. “There seems to be an alarm activated in the cave. I would advise attending to the situation.”

 

Damian drops from the chandelier, and they head down to the cave in relative peace. “You still don’t deserve it,” Tim whispers, handing Damian his shoe back anyway.

 

“Tt,” Damian huffs, primly, turning to look at the monitor. His smugness falls away. “Oh.”

 

Oracle’s voice pipes out of the computer. _Fire’s on all fifteen floors of the building. Sub basement lab contains highly volatile chemicals. I saw some League assassins on the CCTV earlier, and the whole security shift’s dead, so we can expect that Ra’s al Ghul is involved._

 

Dick hurries into his suit, and notes approvingly that Tim and Damian are doing the same. “All right,” Nightwing says, jumping into the Batmobile. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

“I won’t be in Gotham for a while,” Bruce apologizes over the Javelin’s communicator. “I’ve been called off-planet on League business–”

 

“It’s fine,” Dick says tersely. “We have a situation down here, too.”

 

That brings Bruce up short. “What’s happening?”

 

“Just go, B, we’ll explain later.” And Dick hangs up, which is– well. Bruce tries not to think about it. They can handle themselves.

 

Bruce arrives on the Watchtower to see Superman and Wonder Woman trying to corral– a _child_? “Report,” Bruce says, attempting to contain his confusion.

 

“Kid almost took out half of Midway before I contained the blast,” Hal drawls, flying after the three of them. “We sedated her, but looks like human tranquilizer doses aren’t half as effective on kids from wherever the hell planet this one came from.”

 

Bruce tries not to express outward frustration at the lack of contextual information. “Do you have anything useful, Lantern?”

 

He _laughs_ , the bastard. “Jeez, calm down, Sparky. So far it looks like she just emits concussive blasts. Seem to be linked to emotional distress.”

 

“So you thought it would be a good idea to tranq her without knowing the side effects on her physiology, and then transport her to an unfamiliar environment. Fantastic.”

 

“Hell, B-man, if I knew you were gonna be this grumpy, I’d’a asked for one of the mini-bats.”

 

“Don’t call them– damn it.” Bruce sighs. “Can we contain her? Communicate?”

 

“For now, looks like my ring’s the only thing that has enough power to contain her,” Hal says, barely making an effort to contain his juvenile amusement at getting a rise out of Bruce. “As for communication, we’re not sure if she speaks any human language. Hell, we’re only calling her _she_ because she looks vaguely similar to a human female child and it’s better than _it_.”

 

Bruce evaluates the situation. “Contain her, then sedate her.”

 

“You just _said–_ ”

 

“Does it look like we have any other choice?” Bruce frowns. “J’onn?”

 

“Yes,” J’onn says. “I have been observing the situation, but have not seen reason to intervene. Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Green Lantern are performing admirably.”

 

_Right_ , Bruce wants to say, but instead asks, “Can you read her mind? Find out where she’s from?”

 

“I have made an attempt, but it was unsuccessful. Perhaps if she was calmly sedated and I could make physical contact.”

 

“You heard him,” Bruce says. “Get her to J’onn.”

 

Suddenly, there’s a voice in his mind. _Please don’t hurt me_ , Bruce hears. He sees J’onn stagger back, away from the monitoring station. The alien has stopped running.

 

“How do you speak our language?” Bruce asks, moving closer to her.

 

_Please don’t hurt me_ , she repeats. J’onn floats closer as Superman and Wonder Woman draw back. Hal holds out his ring at the ready.

 

“We won’t hurt you,” Bruce says, holding out his hand. His other hand is on his taser. “We want to help you. Where are you from?”

 

_I want to go home_ , she says, and Bruce is struck with _longing_ , an ache, a deep-rooted emptiness, a loss he had only glimpsed in that alleyway decades ago. Hal’s costume flickers, once, as Clark lands heavily on the landing bay floor. Diana whispers, _Mother_.

 

J’onn moves closer. “You are hurting us,” he says, in his deep baritone. “Why?”

 

_I want to go home_ , the alien says again. Bruce sees a shiver in the air around her, and only has time to bark out, “Lantern!” before the air erupts.

 

The dust clears to reveal her contained within a green force field.

 

“I must enter,” says J’onn. Hal shrugs, and says _your funeral_ , and lets him through, before putting the shield up again.

 

The four of them watch as J’onn places his hands on the girl’s forehead, and enters her mind.

 

* * *

 

“She has been abandoned,” J’onn says, in the main meeting room. The alien child is now asleep in one of their cheerier long-term cells, built for medical quarantine. “Her home planet was destroyed, and she was carried in a shuttlecraft to Earth. She learned our language through her minimal telepathic powers, which is why she was unable to communicate with us when we first encountered her.”

 

“Well, doesn’t that sound familiar,” Hal says, looking at the girl, now asleep, on the screen. “Except for the last part, I guess. What’s she gonna do now?”

 

Diana steps up. “She can live on Paradise Island, where she will be well trained. The Amazons are more than capable of handling her outbursts.”

 

“And if they are not?” J’onn frowns. “I do not doubt the prowess of your people, but this child’s powers are enough to injure even Superman, if only temporarily. Until she gains control, it may not be safe for her to live in close proximity to those who may be hurt.”

 

“It seems unfair to isolate her just because she’s powerful. There are facilities on Earth that deal with meta children. We could leave her with one of those, so she can experience living with other humans,” Clark says.

 

Bruce laughs. “You want to leave an unknown meta with a government facility on Earth? Might as well hand Luthor the presidency and the Joker a nuclear bomb while you’re at it.”

 

“So what do we do?” Hal asks. “What’s your big plan?”

 

“We keep her here on the Watchtower, at the very least until we know she’s in control of her powers and we’re aware of what her limits are.”

 

It seems like an eminently reasonable suggestion to Bruce, but Clark seems horrified. Fortunately, Diana looks ready to accept it; Bruce wasn’t looking forward to dancing around the fact that his hesitations with leaving the child on Paradise Island are less about the safety of Diana’s fellow Amazons, and more about the risk of leaving a meta with unknown powers on an inaccessible semi-mythical island. 

 

“Damn,” Hal says. “That seems... a little bit genius, a lot creepy dystopian dictator.” He shrugs, though, and says, “I’m down.”

 

“It seems logical to keep her in a space where she can be monitored and assisted should the need arise,” J’onn says.

 

Diana nods, and adds, “If she is unable to learn to control her powers here, she is welcome amongst my sisters.”

 

Bruce decides not to argue with that.

 

“Is this– we’re all okay with this?” Clark asks. “We’re going to keep a _child_ on the Watchtower with no oversight? To keep _tabs_ on her? Is this not raising any flags for anyone else?”

 

Diana looks vaguely uncomfortable, and says, “We have a meeting of core Justice League members already set for tomorrow. It seems wise to leave this decision until then, so it can be discussed further.” She looks between the two of them, and says, “I am scheduled to meet with a member of the Kasnian royal family. Excuse me.”

 

Hal doesn’t bother to make up a reason to fly away from the imminent argument, and J’onn dematerializes through the floor.

 

“Do you think she knows I know she’s dating the princess of Kasnia?” Bruce asks, rhetorically.

 

Clark doesn’t appear to be amused. “Bruce, come on. You know the Watchtower is no place for a child.” He’s as serious as he always is when he’s certain he’s doing the right thing, and Bruce pushes down the instinctive acquiescence that bubbles up every time Clark looks like this; Bruce knows he’s right, and that this is important.

 

“This _child_ is dangerous. Recently orphaned, lashing out violently because of her trauma, and an overpowered alien on top of that. We need to take her in.”

 

“We can’t just steal a baby!”

 

Why can’t Clark see the flaws in his logic? “Firstly, she’s not a baby, she’s at least the equivalent of a human four year old. And you know that no one on Earth is capable of giving her the care she needs.”

 

“Care? Or training?” 

 

Bruce ignores Clark’s forbidding crossed arms and disapproving brow. He expected this to come up; after all, this is what happens when you accidentally become one of the few parents in the League. Your kids always end up part of the debate. “You know I’m talking about taking care of her. This isn’t a need to exploit a young and impressionable metahuman for Batman’s enigmatic purposes, or whatever the hell you think I get out of this; what this _is_ is the only way to keep both her and the humans around her safe.”

 

Clark’s hands fall to his sides. “Ma and Pa did a fine job with me despite–”

 

“Martha and Jonathan were unreasonably good people who lived on a farm surrounded by acres of empty land. They knew you were an alien from the moment they found you. You only started exhibiting your powers once you hit puberty. Clark, this is a very different situation from yours. If anything, it’s much closer to when I took in Dick and Jason.”

 

“And look how well that turned out!”

 

Silence. Bruce is immediately thrust back into that phone call, all lingering traces of humor erased. He knows Clark isn’t talking about that – knows Clark probably doesn’t even know what his kids have been through. Doesn’t know what they blame him for.

 

Clark’s talking about how he let his son die. That’s... something.

 

“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry.” Clark looks ashamed, the perfect image of divine remorse. “That was uncalled–”

 

“It was.” Bruce frowns at the meeting table behind Clark. “But you’re not wrong.”

 

“Bruce–”

 

“I’m certainly not the person who should be responsible for her. But you know this is the best way. You want to wait until she gets picked up by a gang that gets wind of her powers? What about a trafficking ring? Lex Luthor? Those are very real possibilities if we leave her with a facility on Earth.” He lets Clark imagine it, and then throws in something he knows will ring a bell in a man terrified of his own powers. “Or what if a human family adopts her, and she loses control? She gets bullied at school. Her parents take her out when she wants to stay home. An uncle refuses to give her a piggyback ride. Clark, she could destroy a neighbourhood without intending to. Keeping her on the Watchtower is the only way.”

 

Bruce can tell that he’s starting to be convinced, but Clark still hesitates. “She deserves a _childhood_.”

 

“She lost the possibility of a normal childhood when she landed on this planet, stranded away from her guardians.” He thinks about what it would have been like if he, at eight years old, had been shifted to a distant relative or a foster family; grieving and full of vengeance, forced onto unsuspecting adopted parents. No, a _childhood_ would not have been possible. “Clark, she can be happy here. Over twenty League members have children she can have playdates with. I’m sure there are members looking to adopt – Vigilante and Shining Knight, maybe. If not, we can have a rotating schedule.” He sighs. “I know it’s not ideal, but what choice do we have? Unless you’d rather dump her on Oa.”

 

They both shudder at the thought of leaving a child with the emotionless Lantern Corps heads. “Maybe you’re right,” Clark says, and Bruce knows he’s won. “I just can’t imagine any child being happy here, surrounded only by people in masks, training to fight.”

 

“Thanks,” Bruce says, dry.

 

“You know it’s different,” Clark says, and Bruce knows he should agree, but he really can’t think of a reason why. “You provided your kids with a home. They chose to fight by your side. This is different.”

 

Is it? “I didn’t know about my youngest until his mother brought him to me when he was twelve. He was raised by the League of Assassins. He'd never spoken to one of his own peers until he came to Gotham. Every single person he was surrounded by made it evident that they could kill him in an instant if he wasn’t constantly on his guard.” He feels sick sometimes, still, at the life Damian had. At the trauma, the need for approval – the trust he never got from Bruce. The trust Bruce had told him to _earn_ , unthinkingly.

 

“Bruce–”

 

He shakes himself out of it. “I won’t let that happen to another child. She’s powerful, Clark, and that makes her a target. I’ve failed–” and Bruce stops, but doesn’t do anything so melodramatic as choking on his own breath. Clark reaches out in the silence anyway.

 

“Bruce...”

 

Clark is in front of him now; he’s a solid presence, one Bruce has appreciated having at his side for years. Right now, it feels suffocating. He searches for the words that will let him breathe.

 

“Maybe you think I shouldn’t be involved in any decisions about children.”

 

Finally catching on to Bruce’s train of thought, Clark breathes out, “Bruce, _no_.” 

 

“I wouldn’t blame you. But you know this is the best thing for this child.”

 

“Bruce, this isn’t about that at all.” Clark pauses, and Bruce can sense the wheels turning. He comes to the obvious, but perhaps counterintuitive, conclusion: “And you know it. There’s something else going on. What’s wrong?”

 

Bruce fights down the shame that comes with weakness; it’s something he’s always fighting around Clark. “Some things were brought to my attention by my children. By Dick, in particular. I... neglected something that was my responsibility. My fault.” He hears the echo of his words when Jason had– when Jason was– when Jason returned. Somehow, this is a similar feeling. He doesn’t know if that’s worse or better than what he could have expected.

 

“Bruce...” Clark waits, but Bruce stays silent. God knows he can outlast Superman when it comes to the silent treatment, so Clark’s sighing and running a hand through his hair before Bruce can even crack a sweat. “We’ll talk about what to do with the child at the League meeting tomorrow.” And Clark, ever the optimist, adds, “Bruce, tell me you’re coming.”

 

“I trust you to represent my thoughts.” There are dozens of reasons why Bruce can’t disappear on Clark the way he can with Gordon, so he offers an, “Excuse me.”

 

“Damn it, Bruce!” Clark stops in front of Bruce, and that’s– Bruce would be able to leave, if he had to, but Clark knows how to make Bruce’s exits a hell of a lot more difficult and violent than they need to be. “Will you just _talk_ to me!”

 

It’s been a long time since Bruce has made him this frustrated.

 

Bruce turns to walk over to the windows overlooking the Earth, conceding silently to Clark’s plea without being forced to acknowledge it. He’d been the one to place the main meeting room here; he’d thought that having wide windows open to the space outside, and a direct view of the Earth, would force the metas in the League’s core to consider the humans whose lives they protect. He’d never considered, before now, the feelings of superiority he might have engendered. How could you look at the Earth – bright and saturated and clear against the backdrop of open space, yes, but undeniably small and insignificant as well – without imagining how easy it would be to destroy it? How could you look at the planet below, its entirety contained in a single glance, without feeling like God?

 

“Damian is turning fifteen soon.” There’s no logical leap there that Bruce can see, let alone Clark, who, contrary to rumor, is hardly privy to Bruce’s thoughts. But Clark often does him the favor of listening until he makes sense. “It’s dangerous.” He considers his words, and realizes the contradiction in them. “Then again, even children can live in danger. His upbringing is an example of that.”

 

“Bruce.” Clark reaches out, but doesn’t touch him yet. Bruce appreciates the predictability. “What’s going through your head?”

 

Bruce evaluates the threads that have been running through his mind since Dick called him last night. Weakness; mortality; guilt. A lack of focus. Paranoia.

 

“I think I’ve been triggered.” He lets that sit. It’s perhaps not the most immediately accurate assumption – it’s possible that this is his baseline, that going without his medication for the duration of his time trapped in the past has had a lingering impact – but it feels right. “I’ve experienced significant trauma in my life. Not more or less than any one person in our community, necessarily, but I am human. I know my limits. And I know that when someone has a vendetta against me, their attacks tend to be more... personal.” He’s speaking in non-sequiturs; he’s circling disjointedly around the point, because he knows he can’t say it. He can’t think it.

 

Clark’s hand makes its way to Bruce’s shoulder; through the kevlar, he can just feel it, which is how he knows Clark’s paying attention to his own strength. “You’re not wrong.”

 

“Recently, Dick brought up my failings as a guardian. Failings that I hadn’t been prepared to face.” Bruce swallows. His throat is dry. “I won’t make the same mistakes again. I’ve abandoned enough of my responsibilities to last me a lifetime.”

 

Clark doesn’t crowd him, which he’s grateful for. The hand on his shoulder shifts slightly as Clark moves to stand just to his right, into his line of vision. “Do you want to tell me what you and Dick talked about?”

 

Bruce looks out onto the Earth, a god overlooking his creation. He has never felt more unworthy. “Do you hear everyone crying for help?”

 

It’s a question borne of cruel impulse, and it has the unintended (or, possibly, intended) effect of making Clark flush, and take his hand off Bruce’s shoulder. “I– I can, if I concentrate. I tune it out, though, unless someone specifically calls my name. I can’t... I just can’t save everyone.” He breathes out. “Why do you ask?”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t know. Morbid curiosity.” That doesn’t feel like enough. “How do you tell your children about what horrors are out there? How do you explain that it isn’t their fault if they can’t protect themselves?”

 

“Are you telling me you’ve never had a conversation with your kids about trauma?” Clark asks. He sounds bewildered; Bruce supposes that makes sense, considering that Batman is the League’s main proponent of psych evaluations and regular counselling.

 

“I have,” Bruce says. “At first, with Jason and Dick, I didn’t – not out of any malice, or specific desire to avoid it; it simply wasn’t talked about then. I didn’t know the mental stress I was putting them through, on top of the physical. Recently, though, I’ve been mentioning trauma and its impacts to whoever still listens to me.” He feels like Alfred complaining about delinquents ignoring his advice, but it’s true; he makes the effort. Whether it’s enough, well. That’s a different story.

 

Clark says, “I know it’s hard, but these are important conversations to have–”

 

“I know, Clark.” Bruce sighs. “I don’t believe that’s where I’ve been failing. Or at least, it’s too general a category. I’ve spoken to my children about the psychological impact of what we do. They’re all aware of counsellors and clinicians who know what we do and who we can trust.” He wants to claim credit for that, wants to say _I referred them_ , but all he’d done was compile a list and leave it open on the computers in the Batcave. It had stayed open until Jason’s last visit to the Cave, though, which is evidence that all of his children had, at the very least, seen it.

 

“Then it sounds like you’re doing great.” Clark is encouraging, and perhaps more than a little confused. Bruce doesn’t blame him. If this was the issue, it’s certainly been solved a lot faster than most of Bruce’s insecurities.

 

But there’s no need to worry, Clark. Bruce has more than a few wrenches to throw into this conversation. “I don’t know how to talk to my kids about sexual violence.”

 

“Oh.” Clark’s hand twitches. “Oh.”

 

“Yes.” Bruce’s lips twitch up, just for a second, with a grim smile. “It was recently brought to my knowledge that more than...” He pauses. He doesn’t know how to do this. Breathe in, breathe out. “More than one of my children has been sexually assaulted.” He tears the cowl off. He can’t be Batman right now. The placid indifference of the planet below is more infuriating than soothing. “Christ, Clark. These are my _kids_.”

 

“Bruce,” Clark says. The window reflects– Bruce supposes that’s horror, on Clark’s face. He’d never seen it in a non-combat situation before. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Dick told me I didn’t do enough – I didn’t do anything to stop this. I didn’t do anything to give them the tools to protect themselves from this, or to recover.” He’s stumbling over his words– he’s a grown man, for God’s sake, he’s– the inside of his gloves are slippery with sweat. Clark can probably hear his heart racing. “He’s right, of course–”

 

“Bruce,” Clark protests, but he doesn’t _know_ , he doesn’t–

 

“He’s right.” He leaves no room for disagreement. “I’m not asking for absolution on that point. I’ll never be able to make that right.” He breathes; in, out. “But how do I tell Damian all of this? Cassandra is, without a doubt, already familiar with these...” He swallows. “Possibilities, and it’s likely–” He doesn’t like the turn of phrase he’s about to use, but it’s the only one he can think of. “It’s likely too late for a conversation like this to be helpful for... the rest of them.”

 

He doesn’t like how it sounds like he’s giving up. He’s dedicated to supporting his children, he _is_ , but first – a question Clark can answer. A question he hopes Clark can answer. “I’ll have to have different conversations with them, but how do I tell Damian that if anything happens to him, it’s not his fault? How do I tell him that he has the right to say no, after he’s been shuffled around without a choice on his mother’s and my say so? How can I be honest with him without making him hate himself?” Bruce meets Clark’s eyes, finally. He ignores the dawning realization in Clark’s unspoken _oh_ , in the shape of his mouth and his widening eyes. “How do I _protect_ him?”

 

He’s begging, for alms, for peace, but he knows pity when he gets it. Clark takes Bruce’s hand in his. Bruce can’t feel it at all.

 

“Bruce, God, I’m sorry.” Bruce knows what he’s going to say next, but he still waits, and holds his breath, and is stupidly, surprisedly, disappointed. “I just don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

“I sent over what I have so far,” Tim tells Cass. They’re on a private frequency, which is mostly because it’s easier to make a new channel for two people than it is to patch in to the existing one that everyone in Gotham has access to. “Let me know what you think.”

 

He hears clicking, and then Cass suggests, “An army?”

 

Tim shrugs, and watches the building across the street with Nightwing and Robin. They’ve already evacuated the civilians, and now they’re just searching for some clues to help them figure out what’s going on. “Maybe. Ra’s is building his resources. Not sure what for– any ideas?”

 

“He’s not going fast.” Then Cass clarifies, “He’s not doing things quickly. He can’t do anything he couldn’t do before at the rate he’s increasing his military and economic power. Not soon.”

 

Tim frowns. “So what do we do? Should we interfere?”

 

“You would die.” It’s blunt, but not unwarranted; Tim knows he’s playing with fire whenever he gives in to Ra’s’ taunts.

 

Tim sighs. “Should we be worried about what he’s doing?”

 

“No. Not right now,” Cass says. “Worry about Gotham.”

 

“It would be easier if you were here to help us out,” Tim says, knowing it’s a long shot.

 

Cass is gently amused. “I am needed here,” she says, as unassuming as she always is.

 

“Yeah, Wonder Boy!” Tim is– not surprised, but, okay, maybe a little surprised to hear Steph’s voice. “Stop bugging my favorite Bat. We gotta go fight some bad guys.”

 

“I’m hurt,” Tim teases. “ _I’m_ not your favorite Bat?”

 

“Well,” Steph says, voice softening, “you’re a close second.”

 

Tim almost-smiles, and then–

 

The buildings shake as the building across the street crumbles, flaming. “What was that?” Nightwing asks, as the whole block is rocked by the explosion. “You guys okay?”

 

“Fine,” Damian huffs, at the same time as Tim.

 

“What’s happening?” asks Steph, all worry.

 

Tim says, “There was an explosion across the street, not sure what’s happening yet, I’ll–” but he doesn’t get to finish, because the Red Hood shows up. “Why’s the Red Hood here?” Tim mutters under his breath.

 

“Damn, that hurts,” Jason says. Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m here because, in case you didn’t notice, this building exploded next to this other building that was on fire, and I don’t know about you, but _I_ think that’s pretty–”

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Damian snaps, and Tim has to admit that, for once, he agrees with the demon brat.

 

“I gotta go,” Tim tells Steph and Cass as Oracle coordinates their search for those responsible. The fire department’s already here, so Tim doesn’t feel too bad about abandoning the scene of the crime.

 

“Be safe,” Cass says. Steph adds, “For real. You better not get blown up before you can get out here and say hi.”

 

Tim smiles. “I’ll do my best. Both of you – stay safe too.”

 

He cuts the connection, and focuses on the job at hand.

 

* * *

 

Batman arrives in the middle of their debrief/planning session/freak out as effortlessly and silently as he always does. He looks, unbelievably, even tenser than he usually does. Usually did. Dick doesn’t know anything about Bruce’s _usual_ anymore. “Report.”

 

Dick looks around, but it seems like the kids have volunteered him to be their spokesman. “The lab over there was on fire, so we got out the civilians and the hazardous chemicals in the sub basement. Oracle said there were League of Assassins members spotted, but none we could find, so we split up to cover the surrounding blocks–”

 

“You assumed there was nothing more to do here?”

 

“B, I think N made the right call here,” Tim says. Damian scoffs.

 

“Evidently he didn’t, because there are two smoking buildings–”

 

“Will you relax?” Jason drawls from behind them. “No one died, no one was even in the other building, and the fire hasn’t spread to–”

 

“I’m not going to _relax_ ,” Bruce grunts, and Dick resists the urge to say _no shit, Sherlock_ , “because apparently when a building explodes you all stand around and do nothing–”

 

“B, I don’t think that’s fair,” Dick protests, especially considering the fact that they were _searching for the assassins responsible when the bomb next to the WE lab went off_ –

 

“I think it is,” B says brusquely, “and if this is what happens when I leave–”

 

“Exactly!” Tim breaks in. “You left, and now you think you can just waltz in here–”

 

“We’re really not getting anywhere,” Dick tries, to no avail.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Talia says. The rooftop falls silent as she stalks forward, lit by the burning buildings behind her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your... family squabble.”

 

“What are you doing here.” It couldn’t be mistaken for a question, not the way Batman says it.

 

Talia smiles slightly. “I’m here for my son.” She looks at Damian, and says, like she’s speaking to a dog, “Damian, come along now.”

 

Damian looks conflicted, but this was a struggle he resolved ages ago, and Dick is proud to see him take a stand. “No, Mother.” He holds himself stiffly, and Dick resists the urge to gather him up in a hug. “Why are you really here?”

 

It’s a brave question, and Dick can’t help but smile.

 

“Well,” Talia says, affronted. She sighs, though, releasing the mask of concerned motherhood. “You could say I’m... sending a message.” She holds up a vial–

 

Tim frowns, tilting his head in confusion. “Is that–”

 

“Oscula,” Talia offers. “The deadliest virus in the world.”

 

Bruce says _hand it over_ , but it sounds distant, all background noise as Dick tries to figure out what’s going on. It just doesn’t make any _sense_ – why the labs? Why the explosion? It feels like this is all a trap, or more of a trap than it already appears to be, and that’s more than a little concerning.

 

“O,” Dick says, trying not to draw attention to himself, “Can you find the components to make this virus in any of the Wayne Enterprises labs that were broken into?” Maybe they’ve missed something, maybe it _wasn’t_ the break-ins themselves that were the message–

 

“Gimme a sec.” O types away, and Dick attempts to stay invested in the growing tension around him. “Looks like... I mean, some of the dispersal agents, sure, but you could get them anywhere else too. The virus itself and the equipment needed, though, you couldn’t find or make at any of the labs.” She pauses, and Dick tries not to show his worry. “You think it’s a distraction?”

 

“Oh, you’ve grown up so much,” Talia is saying to Jason. “Look at you. Look at what you’ve become.”

 

Jason bristles. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, huh?”

 

She steps forward, almost, _almost_ close enough to touch. “Do you remember our shared moonlight?”

 

Bruce walks up to her, a hulking, unstoppable force. His steps leave dents in the thermoplastic roofing. “That’s enough. Hand over the vial and leave, Talia. There’s nothing for you here.”

 

“On the contrary,” she says. Dick goes cold. “Everything here is for me.”

 

Talia drops the vial.

 

“ _N_?” Oracle asks, “Did you hear what I said?”

 

“Yeah,” Dick says, trying to fit on his rebreather and ward off the assassins that have come out of the cloying gas, “and I think the answer is yes.”

 

He’s fighting, eyes burning as he tries to block knives with his reinforced-lycra-covered-forearms ( _stupid_ , is what that is), when Tim yells, “It’s not the contagion! It’s harmless!”

 

Dick figured, knew that Talia wouldn’t have risked releasing a virus without taking herself and probably Damian far, far away, but breathes out a sigh of relief anyway. He flips over the shoulders of one of the ninjas, attempting to get a visual on either Tim or Bruce, the most likely targets of an al Ghul trap.

 

“You’re so handsome,” Dick hears distantly through the comms, disorienting him. He almost loses his footing, gets an elbow in his stomach for it, but keeps trying to make his way out of the now-thinning cloud of smoke.

 

“Did my beloved teach you that?” Talia continues, talking to– _Jason_ , Dick realizes, desperately clawing his way to his brother.

 

He hears the crack of bone as Jason says, “I didn’t learn to get on my knees for _Bruce_ , you sick fuck!” Dick stops as the smoke clears, free of assassin hangers-on for now, looking at Jason being tackled by three ninjas, Talia’s nose streaming blood.

 

Even Damian realizes the implications of his words, and looks at his mother with betrayal in his eyes. Fuck. _Fuck_. Dick never wanted this for him. 

 

The strange, millisecond-long tableau is interrupted by Bruce’s fist careening into one of the ninjas on Jason. “What do you _want_ ,” Bruce growls, but Dick misses Talia’s answer, if she gives him one, in the flood of pain that slams into him as one of Talia’s thugs barrels into his shoulders. Dick twists, and knocks the guy flat on his back, as Damian throws a batarang into the chest plate of the nearest ninja.

 

Talia and her entourage are loud and aggressive, but it seems like more than a few of them are poorly trained, and it feels like they’re a little less efficient assassin and a little more– distraction.

 

Dick looks around, and finally, finally gets a visual on Tim, alone, talking into a communicator. He tries to make his way there, but he’s interrupted by one of Talia’s goons, a broad, monstrous figure. He goes for the instep, tries to kick the man’s knees in, but he slips, like an _amateur_ , and–

 

He doesn’t realize he’s off the ground, at first, until he’s suddenly aware that he’s being held up _by his neck_ , oh fuck, oh fuck, he’s scrabbling for purchase, any kind of grip, but it’s not–

 

he’s been trained, he knows how to get out of a chokehold, but he can’t– too strong– he can’t breathe–

 

spots in his vision, he’s–

 

_gasping_ –

 

A shot fires and Dick falls to his feet. The goon stumbles back from the force of the bullet, holding his shoulder, and Jason shoots him in the kneecap.

 

“ _Hood_ ,” Dick says, but can’t make himself put too much ire behind it.

 

“Relax, N, I promise not to kill anybody tonight,” Jason says. “Now go!”

 

Damian comes up next to Jason, and Dick runs for Tim.

 

He gets close enough to hear Ra’s al Ghul’s voice coming through the comm. “You can end this,” Ra’s is saying. The light of the burning lab animates the shadows on Tim’s cowl. “You can join me.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Dick thinks, doesn’t realize he says it aloud until Tim starts back. “We can stop him. Don’t give up.”

 

“Maybe this isn’t giving up,” Tim says. “Maybe this is the only thing I can do.”

 

“Who taught you that?” Dick reaches for the comm, and gently pries it out of Tim’s hands; Tim lets him. “Who taught you that you were a reasonable sacrifice to make?” Tim’s life spent under Ra’s’ thumb, a hastily wrought truce between the demon’s head and the Bat family purchased with Red Robin’s allegiance; it’s unimaginable.

 

Tim laughs, one short bark that cuts out the rest of the fighting. “Maybe I’m just following your example.”

 

Dick breathes out. “Tim,” he risks. “ _Tim_. You’re not expendable. You’re not– you’re worth more than this.”

 

“So are you.” Tim looks up at him, and that look, more than anything, blows away the fear that crept in when Dick heard Ra’s al Ghul’s voice. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s end this.”

 

And so they do.

 

* * *

 

Jason can only do this now; he’s still riding the adrenaline of the fight even though Talia’s been chased back to whatever hole she crawled out of. He’s still feeling the power in his bulk. He hasn’t seen Bruce in –  _years_ , it seems like, and that’s how he likes it, but he’s ready for something to change.

 

B isn’t in the Batmobile, even though the rest of the Batkids have disappeared into the ether. Jason expects Dick is on his way to Jason’s apartment, since that’s where he’s been spending all his time since that one rainy night. Jason’s fucking soft, is what he is, but he can’t help the curl of satisfaction that comes with being a caretaker, creating something good.

 

Bruce probably wants to talk about what Talia said; _shared moonlight_ , Jesus, as though Jason wouldn’t figure out that she was trying to echo a conversation with Bruce. As though it hasn’t always been about Bruce, even when it was Jason’s body desecrated.

 

“I’m–”

 

“ _Fuck_ no,” Jason says, unwilling to let Bruce start this conversation. “We’re talking when I fucking say we can, asshole.”

 

Bruce nods silently, like the semantic fucker he is. Jason sighs, and takes off the helmet, and moves to sit on the edge of the roof. He moves stiffly, feeling bruises on his body in familiar places. Bruce doesn’t sit next to him, _shocker_ ; Jason refuses to allow his looming shadow to have power over him.

 

He waits, and waits, and Jason lets him sweat.

 

Jason hates this –  _hates_ this – but he feels like... he feels like he has to start with Dick. How fucked up is that? It’s always– but _fuck_ , he’s– “I know Dick said nothing happened when he was a kid–”

 

“How the hell do you know that?”

 

Great. They’re off to a great fucking start. “Because he _told me_ , asshole! Jesus, stop fucking assuming I’m constantly trying to fuck you guys over! You’re the one spying on me 24/7!” As though he wouldn’t notice the bug in his duffle. He’s this close to jumping off the roof and leaving this conversation for another day.

 

“Because you’re a _criminal_ –” and Bruce cuts himself off. Jason wonders what bullshit he’s going to spew next. “Damn it. Jason. I’m sorry–”

 

“You should be!” _I’m sorry_ , as if that would– “You’re the one who didn’t fucking– I mean. Come on. You knew what happened when I was a kid.” Jason thinks there’s no way Bruce couldn’t have known. How do you bring a kid into your home and just... not _notice_ him waiting for the other shoe to drop? How do you miss the shakes, the nerves, the fingernail picking, the flinching, the aggression? Like, it’s not like Jason didn’t _know_ he was – is – a dick. And Jason’s seen the notes on his file in the Cave monitor: volatile, violent, amoral. Tendencies to criminal behaviour. So history repeats itself.

 

“I don’t–”

 

_Fuck_. Come _on_. “As if,” Jason says. He can’t _believe_ the audacity– “As if you didn’t deliberately choose the kid that looked the least damaged–”

 

“Jason, you were _stealing_ my _tires_ –”

 

“Well too bad for you,” Jason barrels on, because he’s one petty motherfucker, “you didn’t fix me at all, and I’m doing fine on my own, and I don’t need you, and you never made me feel safer in your home, so _fuck_ you.”

 

He’s– is it stupid that he wants to cry? He’s not– it’s not even like Bruce is the worst, or anything, just – this could’ve just not happened. He could’ve just been a kid. He could just _not_ be having this conversation.

 

“Jesus,” Bruce says, his voice soft. Jason hopes the fucking idiot doesn’t try to put a hand on him, because that’s not going to end well for anyone involved. “Jason–”

 

That’s enough of that. “You know, the first three months, I spent every night waiting for you to come into my room.”

 

The quiet that falls is all-consuming. Even the sound of the cars below seems to cut out. Jason’s never– Dick doesn’t even know, and Dick was _there_ , if only nominally. Jason’s never said that before. Fuck, if he had, the tabloids would’ve had a field day. _Bruce Wayne, Pedophile: Rumors Confirmed._ He’s not sure who would’ve had a worse time.

 

Finally, Bruce breaks the silence. “Jason...”

 

But Jason’s on a roll now, telling the skyscraper across the street about his fucked up post-Bruce childhood. “Every night. I’d lock my door, and then– and I’d be afraid that would be the night you’d come in, and you’d be mad I locked it and it’d– it’d hurt more, so I’d,” and this is the part he hates the most, looking back on it. He can’t stop his voice from dropping to a choppy whisper, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “I’d unlock it and try to wait up for you, so you wouldn’t– you wouldn’t take me by surprise. Alfred would scare the shit out of me when he’d come to wake me up.”

 

Bruce says nothing, but Jason knows he’s still standing there, can still hear the faint whips of the cape in the wind, which is honest to God better than he might have hoped for. Jason half expected him to say _fuck it_ and ditch this conversation right in the middle of Jason’s morbid monologue.

 

“You never noticed,” Jason says, half accusation and half realization. He hadn’t thought it was true, until now. He hadn’t thought it was possible. “You never noticed that I was– and even after I got it in my head that you weren’t going to do anything, you made me Robin.” _And it was magic_ , he doesn't say, because he doesn’t get to say things like that anymore. A body – a corpse – like his: to associate it with magic would be blasphemy.

 

“I made you Robin,” Bruce agrees, because there’s nothing else to say. Bruce doesn’t know how this story ends.

 

Jason does. “You made me Robin,” he says, “and you made me look in the faces of everyone who ever hurt kids like me and do nothing.”

 

He remembers Bruce’s self-righteous fury when Jason did something that crossed a line, the line Bruce drew that Jason only got to see when he ran head-first into it, a line that never applied to any of the criminals they encountered. _You shattered his collarbone_ , Bruce once spat out, like it was somehow something he’d never seen before, so horrific as to be singled out in a night of violence. 

 

“Jason, I’m–”

 

“I don’t want your fucking apology.” Jason won’t turn around. Bruce won’t come any closer. “I just wanted you to know. It doesn’t get easier. I don’t want you to think that just because Dick had his fucking epiphany we’re all better now.” And it’s blatantly cruel, more than he usually likes to be, but he says, “I know it’s hard for you to imagine a world where someone doesn’t follow what your golden child says–”

 

“ _Jason_ ,” Bruce admonishes. Like all it took to get a reaction was mentioning Dick’s fucking name.

 

Jason tries not to be bitter. “It’s not his fault, I know he’s had it bad, too, but don’t– don’t act like we’re better now. Me and Dick, and me and Tim, we worked our shit out, but don’t think you and me are any better, Bruce.”

 

Bruce finally sounds frustrated. Jason doesn’t even bother trying to push down the satisfaction that brings. “What do you want from me, Jason?”

 

“You take that tone with Dick?” He can’t resist asking it.

 

“No,” Bruce says, willing to jump in now that there’s an argument to be had. Fucking amazing. “Because he told me what I did wrong and how I could make it better.” Bruce sighs, and Jason can just feel a brush of air as Bruce almost attempts to put a hand on his shoulder, and realizes at the last minute what a terrible fucking idea that would be. “I know you’re different from him. I know this situation is different. I’m just... I’m trying not to fight with you, Jason.”

 

“Wow,” Jason says. “Must be really goddamn difficult. Thanks for putting in the effort.”

 

“Will you just–” Bruce sounds affected, _emotional_ , and Jason imagines that if he turned around, he’d see the same man who turned his back on Jason holding a gun to the Joker’s head. He decides to keep looking forward. “You’re my _son_ , goddamn it. I failed you.” And that’s– Jason’s– “No,” Bruce says, anticipating Jason’s objections, “I don’t mean you’re my failure, or my failed vision, or a mistake. _I_ failed you. I had a responsibility to you as your guardian, and I failed you, on more levels than I can fathom. And I’m–”

 

“Don’t say it.” Jason regrets this – he’s itching for a fight, now, for something physical to shake out the tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t want Bruce to say anything else that’ll make him _feel_. “Don’t fucking apologize.”

 

“All right,” Bruce obliges. “I won’t.”

 

They rest in silence for a moment. Jason considers the merits of dropping to the mezzanine roof below him. “I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish here,” he says instead, unsure of what exactly has made him willing to keep this conversation going.

 

“Depends,” Bruce says, finally deigning to sit on the ledge next to him, keeping a healthy distance between them. Jason has a sudden craving for a smoke. “Did yelling at me help?”

 

Jason can’t help but laugh. What the fuck kind of a question is that. “Sure,” he says, more to fill the silence than to agree.

 

Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him – or if he does, he does it so subtly that Jason doesn’t notice in his peripheral vision. Jason pulls out a cigarette and lights up. His fingers don’t shake – he’d be a shitty sniper if emotional disturbance got in the way of his fine motor control – but the adrenaline-rush shiver in his lungs and his shoulders starts to subside.

 

“Would it help you,” Bruce asks, more visibly uncomfortable than Jason’s ever seen him, “if I said none of this –  _none_ of it, Jason, not the Joker, not what happened when you were a child, not what you and Talia did – was your fault? Because it wasn’t. I don’t blame you for a goddamn thing, and I hope to God you don’t blame yourself, because you don’t deserve it.”

 

Jason breathes out smoke, and pushes out the sense-memory of a crowbar in his ribs, blood in his lungs, the nine second countdown between his acceptance and the event of his death. The smell of phlegm and vomit mixed with tears on top of his own piss, the acrid scent and neon chemical taste of the Lazarus pit. Dirty, filthy dollar bills carefully rolled into a small pencil case that could never shake that summer afternoon dumpster smell.

 

Maybe all it took was being reborn, but he finds it easier than before to release the guilt, the instinctive silence, that follows his first memories of trauma.

 

“Yeah,” Jason says, to Bruce, to his own mind, “thanks, I guess.”

 

He jumps down to the roof below, but it doesn’t feel like surrender.

 

* * *

 

Dick looks up at the turn of a key in the lock, and smiles to see Jason enter his apartment. It’s bad form to show up in your brother’s apartment unannounced, probably, but Jason’s never kicked him out before, and Dick wants to check up on him.

 

“Why the fuck are there two of you?” Jason asks, and, well. It’s probably even worse form to bring along the little bro uninvited.

 

Tim doesn’t look up from his tablet, which means he’s either in the Teen Titans group chat (Dick tried making one once with his generation of Titans. Never again) or hacking into the finances of one of Ra’s al Ghul’s shell companies. Dick wishes Tim would pick up knitting or something. “I can leave if you want,” Tim says, which Dick would call manipulative, except he knows for a fact that Jason’s never hesitated to kick someone out of his apartment.

 

“It’s fine,” Jason says, and strips off, right there in the living room. Dick is glad he’s already out of his own uniform ( _costume_ , whispers the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like the exact tone of Steph’s laughter after she found a picture of his first Nightwing... costume).

 

“You want some food?” Dick asks. Normally he wouldn’t offer someone food in their own home, but Dick’s ready to share the chips he bought with his own money, and he’s already set a precedent by cooking for Jason over the past few weeks. It seemed only fair payment for the nights spent crashed on his couch.

 

Jason hangs up his leather jacket and shoves the rest of his clothes into his duffle bag; Dick’s almost a hundred percent sure he wears the same thing every night. That’s disgusting. “You cooking?”

 

Dick smiles. “Sure, if you want.” Tim’s looking at them as though he’s never seen Dick hold a conversation before.

 

Jason kicks the duffle into his closet and says, “You should make that stew, if we got stuff for it. It’s good.” He walks, still in his underwear, to the bathroom, and Dick hears the shower start up.

 

Dick is stunned. He’d made it once – it had been a staple when he was a kid, since all the ingredients for a stew that could feed a family for days cost less than fifteen bucks, no matter what city you were in – about a week ago, and left a tupperware in the fridge. Dick never would have expected Jason to remember it, let alone enjoy it; if he’s honest, there wasn’t a lot of flavor other than the paprika, and his mother didn’t live long enough to teach him how to make it properly. Internet resources on Romani food are few and far between.

 

“Are you going to cook or what?” Tim asks, breaking Dick out of his contemplation.

 

Dick stands up. “Yeah, and you’re gonna help me.” He’s pleased to see the small, reserved smile on Tim’s face.

 

Jason emerges from the bathroom just as they’re about to throw the potato chunks into the pot. “Aw, no,” Jason pouts, “did I miss all the slicing and dicing?”

 

Tim hands Jason a spoon, and says, “Stir. It’s a non-violent activity that some people find soothing.”

 

Jason snorts, but seems satisfied with the wooden spoon in his hand. He looks up at Dick. “Anything I should be doing?” he asks. “I don’t wanna do it wrong.”

 

Dick is immediately, startlingly cognizant of the fact that Jason knows, somehow, that this meal is important to him. It’s probably more obvious than Dick thinks it is. “It’s fine,” Dick says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “I’m not really sure I know how to make it right anyway.”

 

Even Tim recognizes the implications, another orphan abandoned to learning family histories by investigation. Jason’s shoulders slump. “We’re a sad fuckin’ bunch, aren’t we?”

 

“A little bit,” Tim says lightly. “Just cover it and leave it for– how long do we leave it for, Dick?”

 

Dick says, “Uh,” and then says, “Wait, sorry,” and shamefully opens the bookmarked tab on his phone. He should already know this. “It’s been about fifteen– so, just another ten minutes.”

 

“We can start the movie,” Jason says, and that prompts a shared... smile seems too strong a word, but glance seems too unintentional, so. Jason and Tim look at each other. Dick’s just glad to see they’re getting along.

 

But Dick’s here for a reason, and yes, part of it is to make comfort food for his little brothers, but the other part is to make sure Jason’s okay, and not _coping_ or _struggling_ or _surviving_ or any of the other words that they’ve all used to describe themselves. Dick reaches out to touch Jason’s arm. “Jason.”

 

“Yeah?” Jason asks, turning to look at him. “What’s up?”

 

Dick huffs out a quick breath. He’s not sure how to start. “Uh, I– so. I heard what Talia said.”

 

Jason stiffens, and pulls away. Dick tries not to take it personally. “Yeah, big fuckin’ deal. Pretty sure there wasn’t a person there who didn’t hear it.”

 

Dick sighs. He just wants to return the support Jason had gifted him with so easily over the past few weeks. He _knows_ Jason is struggling. “I just– I mean, I just wanted to check in.”

 

“Are you for real?” Jason frowns. “You come in here and– what the hell does that even mean, anyway?”

 

Jason’s eyes start to move, quickly and covertly, and Dick realizes that he’s looking for exits. He backs away, attempting to appear non-threatening, and Tim subtly moves to give Jason an unobstructed pathway to the door. Dick tries to hide his relief when Jason doesn’t take it. “I’m sorry,” Dick offers quietly, “I didn’t mean to ambush you, I just– I wanted to ask if you’re all right.”

 

Jason stares at him, wide eyed, and it looks like Dick’s idea has gone from bad to worse. “You wanna ask if I’m all right?” He laughs. “What the fuck gave you the idea that that’s gonna happen anytime soon?”

 

“Fuck.” Dick’s– damn it. He fucked up. He fucked up _so bad_. “Sorry, I didn’t– Jason. I’m sorry. I was just concerned. You want me to back off and I–”

 

“Did you think _this_ would make me talk about it?” Jason gestures to the stove, the living room behind him. “Jesus Christ, I don’t _want_ to! I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to tell you all about the things that made me like _this_ , okay, I don’t wanna talk about how we all got raped and boo hoo and what a sad fucking life we all have! I just don’t want to! Can’t we just...” Jason scrubs his hand through his hair. Dick holds his breath, and blinks back tears. It feels like an hour passes in that silence.

 

“Look,” Jason says, breathing returning to a normal pace, “you don’t have to stick around, you filled your taking care of Jason quota, okay? Don’t pull this shit. Don’t make me feel like you’re just here because I’m unstable.”

 

“It’s not a quota,” is the only thing Dick can think of to say, at first. He breathes for a moment, and doesn’t risk touching Jason again. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have surprised you with that. I just meant you can talk to me, to us, if you want to, but you don’t have to, and you’re not– that’s not why I’m here, Jason, I swear–”

 

He’s floundering, and thankfully, Tim steps in. “Jay. There’s no ‘taking care of Jason’ quota. We want to be here.”

 

“It’s true,” Dick says. He sighs. “Jason, shit, I’m sorry–”

 

“Fuck, don’t,” Jason spits out. “I’m fine, let’s not– just forget it.”

 

“Okay,” Dick says, chastised. They stay like that, silent together in the kitchen for a moment, until Tim ventures, “Stew’s probably done.”

 

Jason rubs a hand over his face, and breathes out. “I’ll grab some bowls.”

 

Dick watches as Jason and Tim work together, ladling out the stew into three equal, generous portions, with more left over in the pot. Tim puts his bowl down on the table in front of the couch, and sets up the movie in about half the time it takes Dick. Kids these days.

 

“Well at least we got that out of the way,” Jason says, quirking a smile softer than his usual and handing Dick a bowl. Dick bites back another apology, and takes the bowl with a nod. It seems to be enough. “So, are you gonna watch Charles and Erik adopt a bunch of mutant teenagers with the cool Robins or not?”

 

“Wha– excuse me!” Dick says, trying to feign irritation in the face of Jason’s peace offering, “I’m– I was the first! I’m the coolest Robin!”

 

Tim pipes up from the couch, “Dude, you made Bruce keep a collection of oversized bad guy paraphernalia. You made Bruce keep a _giant T-Rex skeleton_ in the cave.”

 

“The giant T-Rex is cool! Jason, dinosaurs are definitely cool, right?”

 

“I mean, I guess,” Jason responds, walking to the couch, “but making Bruce keep one in the Batcave?”

 

Dick fights – not very successfully – to hide his smile. “I can’t believe this. My own brothers, betraying me.”

 

But he wants to believe in Jason’s grin, in what looks like a slight loosening of Tim’s eternally tense muscles. He hops over the back of the couch into his seat, prompting groans from both Tim and Jason, who only narrowly avoided spilling dinner in their laps. Tim twists to lay his feet on Dick’s lap, knees over Jason’s, as Jason kicks his feet up on the coffee table and rests his arms on the back of the couch; Dick can feel Jason’s hand slowly drifting down to pet his hair.

 

They don’t know what Ra’s has planned, and they’ve only just managed to hold back a kidnapping attempt that lasted over a month and straight up involved several explosions and dozens of murders; even so, it feels like the restful silence after a storm breaks. Dick lets a fictional universe’s problems consume him, and feels his anticipation of the future push out the past.

 

All things considered, it’s a good night.


End file.
